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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


/   // 


GERALD   MASSEY. 


ERALD  MASSEY:     POET, 
PROPHET  AND  MYSTIC. 


BY  B.  O.  FLOWER,  WITH 
ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
LAURA  LEE. 


THE    ARENA    PUBLISHING 
CO.,    BOSTON,  MASS. 
MDCCCXCV. 


Copprigbtefc  bt>  JB.  ©.  fflower. 
1895. 


Tl^is  booK  is  inscribed  to  n\y  -Wife, 
HHTTIE  C.  FLOWER, 
^ose  noble  life,  ar\d  fine,  in- 
spiring tl\oxXgl\t,  t\ave  been  a 
constant  aid  in  all  I  Y\ave 
endeavored  to  accoir\- 
plisl)  for  freedorn, 
justice  and  trutti. 


WORKS  BY  B.  0.  FLOWER. 


Civilization's  Inferno;  or,  Studies  in  the 
Social  Cellar.    Cloth,         .        .        ,        .    $1.00 

The  New  Time :  A  Plea  for  the  Union  of 
the  Moral  Forces  for  Freedom  and  Pro- 
gress.    Cloth, i.oo 

Lessons  Learned  from  Other  Lives  :  A  Book 
of  Short  Biographies  for  Young  People. 
Cloth,  --.....       i  .00 

Gerald  Massey  :  Poet,  Prophet  and  Mystic. 
(Illustrated.)    Cloth,  .        .        .        .1.00 


flntro&uctor?  Wlort). 

HIS  little  work  briefly  discusses 
the  life  and  work  of  one  of  Eng- 
land's poets  of  the  people,  who 
deserves  far  more  from  the  hands  of  those 
who  love  justice,  freedom  and  truth  than  he 
has  received.  I  have  purposely  quoted  very 
freely  from  the  writings  of  Mr.  Massey, 
because  I  am  persuaded  that,  in  order  to 
know  the  true  self  or  the  spiritual  ego  of 
an  individual,  we  must  see  his  soul  in  action, 
see  him  battling  with  injustice  or  error, 
when  the  profound  depths  of  his  being  are 
stirred  by  some  high  and  saving  truth ;  for 
then  is  revealed  the  spirit,  unconscious 
for  the  moment  of  the  fetters  of  environ- 
ment or  the  trammels  of  artificiality  which 
surround   us   all.       Then,   the    curtain  is 


raised  and  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  holiest 
of  holies  of  the  human  soul.  This  revela- 
tion of  the  higher  self  is  very  marked  in 
the  noblest  lines  of  a  true  poet.  I  have 
had  a  further  purpose  in  view  in  thus 
introducing  the  poet  through  his  own 
words.  I  desired  to  bring  the  high,  fine 
thought  of  Gerald  Massey  to  the  attention 
of  men  and  women  of  conviction,  believing 
that  his  noble  ideals,  his  passionate  appeals 
for  justice,  his  prophetic  glimpse  of  the 
coming  day,  would  serve  to  awaken  some 
sleeping  souls,  while  they  would  strengthen 
others  in  their  purpose  to  consecrate  life's 
best  endeavors  to  the  cause  of  earth's 
miserables  and  to  the  diffusion  of  light. 

In  the  third  chapter  I  have  indicated 
some  striking  points  of  resemblance  be- 
tween the  writings  of  Massey  and  Whittier. 
The  former  is  passionately  in  love  with  the 
beauty  in  common  life.  He  is  a  tireless 
reformer,  hating   injustice   more   than  he 


u 


loves  life,  and  he  possesses  a  spiritual  in- 
sight equalled  by  few  modern  poets. 
These  also  are  marked  characteristics  of 
our  New  England  Quaker  poet.  The  titles 
poet,  prophet  and  seer  are  as  applicable  to 
the  one  as  to  the  other,  although  Mr. 
Massey  possesses  less  intuitional  perception 
than  Whittier.  What  he  lacks  here,  how- 
ever, is  balanced  by  his  passion  for  truth, 
which  has  led  him  to  search  profoundly  for 
hints  and  facts  that  demonstrate  the 
reality  of  another  life. 

Mr.  Massey  has  been  too  fearless  and  too 
persistent  a  reformer  to  be  appreciated  in 
his  time,  but  his  words  and  worth  will  be 
treasured  in  the  brighter  day,  when  we 
shall  see  dawning  a  social  order  which  shall 
end  enforced  Cl  slavery  for  man,  prostitution 
for  woman,  and  ignorance  for  the  child." 

As  a  poet  of  the  common  life  who  has 
revealed  new  beauties  within  and  without 
the  homes  of  the  humble,  I  admire  him ; 


in 


as  a  fearless  truth-seeker  who  has  dared  to 
incur  the  scoffs  and  sneers  of  convention- 
alism and  the  savage  hate  of  ignorance, 
bigotry  and  fanaticism  in  the  cause  of 
truth,  I  honor  him ;  and  because  he  has 
been  a  true  prophet  of  freedom,  fraternity 
and  justice,  ever  loyal  to  the  interest  of  the 
oppressed,  I  love  him.  Mr.  Massey's  face 
has  been  steadfastly  set  toward  the  morn- 
ing; his  thoughts  are  luminous  with  the 
light  of  the  coming  age ;  hence  it  is  not 
surprising  that  he  has  disturbed  the  bats 
and  owls,  or  enraged  the  serpents  and 
tigers  in  society,  who  instinctively  shrink 
from  the  holy  candor  of  truth  or  the  sweet 
reasonableness  of  justice. 

B.  0.  Flower. 

Boston,  January,  1895. 


iv 


p/,^ 


f^-55^^^/ 


{ She  grew  a  sweet  and  sinless  child.'''' 


I.    Hhe  poet  an&  tbe  ftoam 

HERE  are  in  our  midst  many 
poets  who  attract  small  atten- 
tion from  conventional  critics, 
as  they  have  studiously  avoided  the  praise 
of  conservatism,  choosing  the  byways  of  duty 
in  preference  to  the  highway  of  popularity, 
and  always  living  up  to  their  highest  convic- 
tion of  right.  The  poor,  the  oppressed,  and 
the  sorrowing  have  been  their  special  charge. 
Their  lives  have  been  characterized  by 
simplicity,  and  their  words  and  deeds  have 
inspired  unnumbered  struggling  souls  with 
lofty  ideals  and  nobler  conceptions  of  life. 
While  the  wreath  of  fame  has  been  placed 
by  conservatism  on  the  brows  of  many 
whose  empty  rhymes  have  conformed  to 
the  dilettante  standard  of   "art   for   art's 


sake,"  these  poets  have  quietly  sung  cour- 
age, hope  and  love  into  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  luring  them  unconsciously  to  higher 
altitudes  of  spirituality.  They  have  at  all 
times  proclaimed  the  noble  altruism  of  liv- 
ing for  others  —  the  song  of  the  to-morrow 
of  civilization.  Amid  the  ambitions  and 
jealousies  of  life,  the  strife  for  fame  and 
gold,  they  are  not  found ;  but  where  tyranny 
mocks  freedom  and  the  poor  cry  for  justice, 
their  words  ring  clear  and  strong.  They  are 
the  people's  saviours,  for  they  help  the 
multitudes  into  the  light  of  truth  and  up 
the  path  of  noble  endeavor. 

Among  this  coterie  of  chosen  sons  of 
God,  whose  unpurchasable  love  of  justice 
and  holy  candor  of  soul  have  rendered  it 
impossible  for  them  to  yield  to  the  siren 
voices  of  conventionalism,  no  name  is  en- 
titled to  a  more  honored  place  than  that  of 
Gerald  Massey  —  the  poet-prophet  of  our 
day,  who  has  stood  for  truth  and  right,  while 


less  royal  souls  have  sold  their  heaven-given 
birthright  for  earth's  pottage.  Had  Mr. 
Massey  chosen  to  devote  his  rare  talent  to 
the  humors  and  dictates  of  conventionalism, 
instead  of  offending  the  dilettantehy  boldly 
pleading  the  cause  of  the  oppressed  ;  had 
he  devoted  his  gifts  to  the  creation  of  pop- 
ular lyrics,  instead  of  compelling  his  read- 
ers to  think  upon  the  wrongs  of  those  who 
suffer  through  man's  inhumanity  to  man, 
he  would  not  have  remained  comparatively 
obscure  and  been  compelled  to  eat  the 
bread  of  poverty.  For  few  men  of  our 
century  have  received  higher  praise  from 
leading  literary  critics  than  this  poet  of  the 
people.  And  had  wealth  been  able  to  flat- 
ter him  into  a  fawning  sycophant  he  would 
have  become  the  idol  of  a  gay,  frivolous 
and  amusement-loving  class  who  imagine 
they  are  cultured. 

But  Gerald  Massey  was  a  man  before  he 
was   a   poet.      His   love   for    justice   was 


greater  than  his  desire  for  the  eider  down 
of  luxury  or  the  chaplet  of  fame.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  poor  man.  He  himself  had 
tasted  the  bitterness  of  want.  He  pos- 
sessed the  courage  of  an  Elijah  and  the 
spirit  of  an  Isaiah.  He  preferred  to  reflect 
the  best  in  his  soul  and  devote  his  divine 
gift  to  the  service  of  justice,  rather  than 
conform  to  the  vicious  standards  which 
conventionalism  demands  as  the  price  of 
popularity  and  preferment.  He  cham- 
pioned the  cause  of  the  weak,  the  poor 
and  those  whose  lives  are  made  bitter  by 
having  to  bear  heavier  burdens  than  right- 
fully belong  to  them. 

Now,  because  of  this  magnificient  loyalty 
to  justice  and  human  rights,  because  he 
dared  to  assail  the  injustice  of  entrenched 
plutocracy  and  the  hypocrisy  of  creedal 
religion,  he  has  been  denied  the  justice  due 
to  his  fine  poetic  talent  and  his  superb 
manhood.       But    though    ignored,    in   the 


main,  by  conservatism,  he  has  won  the 
hearts  of  millions  who  love,  suffer  and 
wait.  And  I  believe  the  future  will  place 
him  high  in  the  pantheon  of  England's 
poets,  because  he  has  voiced  the  real  spirit 
of  the  on-coming  civilization  in  a  truer  and 
braver  way  than  many  contemporaries  who 
are  basking  in  popular  favor.  The  follow- 
ing extracts  from  his  writings  reflect  the 
dream  ever  present  in  the  poet's  mind. 
They  may  be  said  to  contain  the  keynote 
of  his  creed :  — 

"  The  first  duty  of  men  who  have  to  die 
is  to  learn  how  to  live,  so  as  to  leave  the 
world,  or  something  in  it,  a  little  better 
than  they  found  it.  Our  future  life  must 
be  the  natural  outcome  of  this  :  the  root  of 
the  whole  matter  is  in  this  life." 

We  hear  the  ciy  for  bread  with  plenty  smiling  all 

around ; 
Hill  and  valley  in  their  bounty  blush  for  man  with 

fruitage  crowned, 


What  a  merry  world  it  might  be,  opulent  for  all 

and  aye, 
With  its  lands  that  ask  for  labor,  and  its  wealth 

that  wastes  away ! 
This   world   is  full    of    beauty,   as    other    worlds 

above  ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 


The  leaf-tongues  of  the  forest,  and  the  flower-lips 

of  the  sod, 
The  happy  birds  that  hymn  their  raptures  in  the 

ear  of  God, 
The  summer   wind  that  bringeth  music  over  land 

and  sea, 
Have  each   a   voice   that   singeth  this   sweet  song 

of  songs  to  me  — 
"This   world   is    full   of  beauty,    as    other  worlds 

above ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love." 


If  faith,  and  hope,  and  kindness  passed,  as   coin, 

'twixt  heart  and  heart, 
Up  through  the  eye's  tear-blindness,  how  the  sudden 

soul  should  start ! 


6 


The  dreary,  dim  and  desolate  should  wear  a  sunny 

bloom, 
And   love    should   spring   from   buried   hate,   like 

flowers  from  winter's  tomb. 
This  world    is    full    of    beauty,  as    other    worlds 

above ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

Were  truth  our  uttered  language,  spirits  might  talk 
with  men, 

And  God-illumined  earth  should   see   the   Golden 

« 
Age  again ; 

The   burthened   heart   should   soar  in   mirth   like 

morn's  young  prophet-lark, 
And  misery's  last  tear  wept  on  earth  quench  hell's 

last  cunning  spark ! 
This   world    is    full    of    beauty,    as   other   worlds 

above ; 
And,  if  we  did  our  duty,  it  might  be  full  of  love. 

Gerald  Massey  was  born  in  Hertfordshire, 
England,  in  1828.  His  father  was  ex- 
tremely poor,  and  G-erald  was  compelled  at 
an  early  age  to  enter  a  factory,  and  thus 


help  support  a  family  which  knew  all  the 
bitterness  of  biting  poverty.  Many  years 
of  his  early  life  were  spent  in  straw  plait- 
ing. At  eight  he  was  working  twelve 
hours  a  day  in  a  silk  manufactory,  and 
receiving  from  nine  pence  to  one 
shilling  and  sixpence  a  week.  Very 
pathetic  is  the  poet's  description  of  the  bit- 
ter struggle  with  poverty  which  marked 
his  early  boyhood.  Still,  without  this 
experience  it  is  doubtful  if  the  world  would 
have  been  enriched  by  his  clarion  cries  for 
justice  or  the  inspiring  songs  of  hope  and 
courage  which  will  be  sung  and  resung 
until  the  wealth  producer  is  emancipated 
and  civilization  learns  her  supreme  lesson 
—  that  Humanity  is  one. 

John  Ruskin,  who  has  ever  seemed  to  take 
a  special  interest  in  Gerald  Massey,  on  one 
occasion  wrote  the  poet  —  "  Your  education 
was  a  terrible  one,  but  mine  was  far  worse ; " 
the  one  having  suffered  the  bitterness  of  pov- 


erty,  the  other  having  been  the  pampered 
child  of  wealth.  Very  few  books  came 
into  the  possession  of  the  poor  poet  boy, 
and  his  time  was  so  taken  up  that  he  had 
few  moments  for  the  luxury  of  reading. 
He  received  no  instruction  save  that  ob- 
tained in  a  penny  school,  but  his  passion- 
ate longing  for  knowledge  led  him  to  many 
fountains  of  truth  which  duller  minds 
would  never  have  discerned.  The  book  of 
nature  attracted  his  eye,  her  smile  wooed 
him,  her  voice  charmed  his  ear ;  his  mind 
unconsciously  drank  deeply  of  her  truths. 
Like  many  another  poor  boy,  Mr.  Massey 
learned  the  value  of  knowledge.  His  mind 
became  a  storehouse  for  truth,  rather  than 
a  sieve,  and  his  passion  for  the  acquisition 
of  facts,  which  was  awakened  before  neces- 
sity compelled  him  to  enter  the  rank  of  the 
child  slaves  of  factory  life,  grew  stronger 
as  he  advanced  in  years.  At  a  later  period 
he   became  a  deep   student  along   several 


lines  of  thought.  An  overmastering  deter- 
mination to  possess  the  truth  and  an 
unflinching  loyalty  to  what  he  conceived 
to  be  right,  have  been  marked  character- 
istics of  the  poet's  life.  In  him  we  have  a 
curious  combination.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  graceful  and  charming  lyric  poets 
England  has  given  the  world.  He  is  also 
a  seer  and  philosopher,  a  mystic  and  scien- 
tific student,  a  prophet  and  reformer,  while 
all  his  work  reflects  simplicity  and  purity 
of  life  inspired  by  his  high  ethical  code  and 
lofty  faith.  For  years  he  has  experienced 
remarkable  psychic  phenomena  within  his 
own  home  circle.  To  him  have  been  given 
test  and  evidences  which  have  convinced 
him  beyond  all  perad  venture  of  doubt  that 
his  loved  ones  who  have  passed  from  view 
are  neither  in  the  ground  nor  in  some  far- 
off  Heavenly  City  of  the  Christian,  nor  yet 
in  the  state  of  Devachan  of  the  Buddhist, 
but  are  around  about  him,  in  his  daily  life. 

10 


He  has  had  proof  palpable  and  of  such  a 
reason-compelling  character  as  to  leave  no 
doubt  in  his  mind  that  his  dear  ones  live, 
love  and  move  onward.  On  this  point  Mr. 
Massey  thus  clearly  and  forcibly  expresses 
his  convictions:  — 

"  My  faith  in  our  future  life  is  founded 
upon  facts  in  nature,  and  realities  of  my 
own  personal  experience ;  not  upon  any 
falsification  of  natural  fact.  These  facts 
have  been  more  or  less  known  to  me  per- 
sonally during  forty  years  of  familiar  face- 
to-face  acquaintanceship,  therefore  my  cer- 
titude is  not  premature ;  they  have  given 
me  the  proof  palpable  that  our  very  own 
human  identity  and  intelligence  do  persist 
after  the  blind  of  darkness  has  been  drawn 
down  in  death.  He  who  has  plumbed 
the  void  of  death  as  I  have,  and  touched 
this  solid  ground  of  fact,  has  established  a 
faith  that  can  never   be    undermined  nor 


11 


over-thrown.  He  has  done  with  the  poetry 
of  desolation  and  despair,  the  sighs  of 
unavailing  regret,  and  all  the  passionate 
wailing  of  unfruitful  pain.  He  cannot  be 
bereaved  in  soul!  And  I  have  had  ample 
testimony  that  my  poems  have  done  wel- 
come work,  if  only  in  helping  to  destroy 
the  tyranny  of  death,  which  has  made  so 
many  mental  slaves  afraid  to  live. 

"  The  false  faiths  are  fading ;  but  it  is  in 
the  light  of  a  truer  knowledge.  The  half 
Gods  are  going  in  order  that  the  whole 
Gods  may  come.  There  is  finer  fish  in  the 
unfathomed  sea  of  the  future  than  any  we 
have  yet  landed.  It  is  only  in  our  time 
that  the  data  have  been  collected  for 
rightly  interpreting  the  past  of  man,  and 
for  portraying  the  long  and  vast  proces- 
sion of  his  slow  but  never-ceasing  progress 
through  the  sandy  wilderness  of  an  uncul- 
tivated earth  into  the  world  of  work,  with 
the    ever-quickening    consciousness    of    a 


12 


higher,  worthier  life  to  come.  And  with- 
out this  measure  of  the  human  past,  we 
could  have  no  true  gauge  of  the  growth 
that  is  possible  in  the  future ! 

"Indeed  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  only 
just  beginning  to  lay  hold  of  this  life  in 
earnest:  only  just  standing  on  the  very 
threshold  of  true  thought ;  only  just  now 
attaining  a  right  mental  method  of  think- 
ing, through  a  knowledge  of  evolution; 
only  just  getting  in  line  with  natural  law, 
and  seeking  earnestly  to  stand  level-footed 
on  that  ground  of  reality  which  must  ever 
and  everywhere  be  the  one  lasting  founda- 
tion of  all  that  is  permanently  true." 

On  the  vital  social  problems  which 
intimately  affect  the  progress  of  the  race, 
Mr.  Massey  evinces  the  clear  perceptions 
of  a  broad-visioned  philosopher.  He  ob- 
serves :  — 


a 


It  is  only  of  late  that  the  tree  of  knowl- 

13 


edge  has  begun  to  lose  its  evil  character, 
to  be  planted  anew,  and  spread  its  roots  in 
the  fresh  ground  of  every  board-school, 
with  its  fruits  no  longer  accursed,  but 
made  free  to  all. 

We  are  beginning  to  see  that  the  worst 
of  the  evils  now  afflicting  the  human  race 
are  man  made,  and  do  not  come  into  the 
world  by  decree  of  fate  or  fiat  of  God ;  and 
that  which  is  man  made  is  also  remediable 
by  man.  Not  by  man  alone  !  For  woman 
is  about  to  take  her  place  by  his  side  as  true 
helpmate  and  ally  in  carrying  on  the  work 
of  the  world,  so  that  we  may  look  upon 
the  fall  of  man  as  being  gradually  super- 
seded by  the  ascent  of  woman.  And  here 
let  me  say,  parenthetically,  that  I  consider 
it  to  be  the  first  necessity  for  women  to 
obtain  the  parliamentry  franchise  before 
they  can  hope  to  stand  upon  a  business 
footing  of  practical  equality  with  men; 
and  therefore  I  have  no   sympathy  with 


14 


these  would-be  abortionists,  who  have  been 
somewhat  too  "  previously  "  trying  to  take 
the  life  of  woman  suffrage  in  embryo 
before  it  should  have  the  chance  of  being 
brought  to  birth." 

With  the  keen  penetration  of  a  highly 
intuitive  mind,  Mr.  Massey  long  ago  per- 
ceived that  wisdom  as  well  as  justice 
demands  that  woman  be  accorded  a  far 
more  exalted  place  than  she  has  been  per- 
mitted to  occupy  hi  the  past,  and  he  has 
been  an  untiring  advocate  of  absolute 
justice  and  the  same  wholesome  freedom 
for  her  as  is  good  for  man.  I  know  of  no 
writer  of  any  age  who  has  taken  higher 
grounds  for  true  morality,  both  within  and 
without  the  marriage  relation,  than  Mr. 
Massey.  He  is  one  of  the  few  men  of  our 
time  who  have  evinced  superb  courage  in 
demanding  that  women  be  protected  from 
involuntary  prostitution  within  the  mar- 
is 


riage  relation.     On  this  important  theme 
he  observes :  — 

"  The  truth  is,  that  woman  at  her  best  and 
noblest  must  be  monarch  of  the  marriage- 
bed.  We  must  begin  in  the  creatory  if  we 
are  to  benefit  the  race,  and  the  woman  has 
got  to  rescue  and  take  possession  of  her- 
self, and  consciously  assume  all  the  respon- 
sibilities of  maternity,  on  behalf  of  the 
children.  No  woman  has  any  right  to 
part  with  the  absolute  ownership  of  her 
own  body,  but  she  has  the  right  to  be  pro- 
tected against  all  forms  of  brute  force. 
No  woman  has  any  business  to  marry  any- 
thing that  is  less  than  a  man.  No  woman 
has  any  right  to  marry  any  man  who  will 
sow  the  seeds  of  hereditary  disease  in  her 
darlings.  Not  for  all  the  money  in  the 
world !  No  woman  has  any  right,  accord- 
ing to  the  highest  law,  to  bear  a  child  to  a 
man  she  does  not  love." 


16 


Our  poet's  high  ideal  of  woman  and  her 
true  position  is  beautifully  expressed  in  the 
following  lines  :  — 

My  fellow-men,  as  yet  we  have  but  seen 

Wife,  sister,  mother,  and  daughter  —  not  the  queen 

Upon  her  throne,  with  all  her  jewels  crowned! 

Unknowing  how  to  seek,  we  have  not  found 
Our  goddess,  waiting  her  Pygmalion 
To  woo  her  into  woman  from  the  stone ! 

Our  husbandry  hath  lacked  essential  power 

To  fructify  the  promise  of  the  flower ; 

We  have  not  known  her  nature  ripe  all  round. 

We  have  but  seen  her  beauty  on  one  side 
That  leaned  in  love  to  us  with  blush  of  bride : 
The  pure  white  lily  of  all  womanhood, 
With  heart  all  golden,  still  is  in  the  bud. 

We  have  but  glimpsed  a  moment  in  her  face 
The  glory  she  will  give  the  future  race ; 
The  strong,  heroic  spirit  knit  beyond 
All  induration  of  the  diamond. 

She  is  the  natural  bringer  from  above, 
The  earthly  mirror  of  immortal  love ; 

17 


The  chosen  mouthpiece  for  the  mystic  word 
Of  life  divine  to  speak  through,  and  be  heard 
W  ith  human  voice,  that  makes  its  heavenward  call 
Not  in  one  virgin  motherhood,  but  all. 

Unworthy  of  the  gift,  how  have  men  trod 
Her  pearls  of  pureness,  swine-like,  in  the  sod ! 
How  often  have  they  offered  her  the  dust 
And  ashes  of  the  fanned-out  fires  of  lust, 
Or,  devilishly  inflamed  with  the  divine, 
Waxed  drunken  with  the  sacramental  wine  ! 

How  have  men  captured  her  with  savage  grips, 
To  stamp  the  kiss  of  conquest  on  her  lips ; 
As  feather  in  their  crest  have  worn  her  grace, 
Or  brush  of  fox  that  crowns  the  hunter's  chase ; 
Wooed  her  with  passions  that  but  wed  to  fire 
With  Hymen's  torch  their  own  funereal  pyre ; 
Stripped  her  as  slave  and  temptress  of  desire ; 
Embraced  the  body  when  her  soul  was  far 
Beyond  possession  as  the  loftiest  star ! 

Her  whiteness  hath  been  tarnished  by  their  touch ; 
Her  promise  hath  been  broken  in  their  clutch ; 
The  woman  hath  reflected  man  too  much, 
And  made  the  bread  of  life  with  earthiest  leaven. 


18 


Our  coming  queen  must  be  the  bride  of  heaven  — 

The  wife  who  will  not  wear  her  bonds  with  pride 

As  adult  doll  with  fripperies  glorified  ; 

The  mother  fashioned  on  a  nobler  plan 

Than  woman  who  was  merely  made  from  man. 

On  the  proper  rearing  of  children  he  has 
words  to  say  which  should  appeal  to  every 
loving  parent :  — 

"  The  life  we  live  with  them  every  day 
is  the  teaching  that  tells,  and  not  the 
precepts  uttered  weekly  that  are  continu- 
ally belied  by  our  own  daily  practices. 
Give  the  children  a  knowledge  of  natural 
law,  especially  in  that  domain  of  physical 
nature  which  has  hitherto  been  tabooed. 
If  we  break  a  natural  law  we  suffer  pain  in 
consequence,  no  matter  whether  we  know 
the  law  or  not.  This  result  is  not  an 
accident,  because  it  always  happens,  arid  is 
obviously  intended  to  happen.  Punish- 
ments are  not  to  be  avoided  by  ignorance 
of  effects ;  they  can  only  be  warded  off  by 

19 


a  knowledge  of  causes.  Therefore  nothing 
but  knowledge  can  help  them.  Teach  the 
children  to  become  the  soldiers  of  duty 
instead  of  the  slaves  of  selfish  desire. 
Show  them  how  the  sins  against  self 
reappear  in  the  lives  of  others.  Teach 
them  to  think  of  those  others  as  the  means 
of  getting  out  of  self.  Teach  them  how 
the  laws  of  nature  work  by  heredity.  .  . 
Children  have  ears  like  the  very  spies  of 
nature  herself;  eyes  that  penetrate  all 
subterfuge  and  pretence.  .  .  Let  them 
be  well  grounded  in  the  doctrine  of  devel- 
opment, without  which  we  cannot  begin  to 
think  coherently.  Give  them  the  best 
material,  the  soundest  method ;  let  the 
spirit  world  have  a  chance  as  a  living 
influence  on  them,  and  then  let  them  do 
the  rest.  Never  forget  that  the  faculty 
for  seeing  is  worth  all  that  is  to  be  seen. 
It  is  good  to  set  before  them  the  loftiest 
ideals — not  those  that   are  mythical  and 

20 


non-natural,  but  those  that  have  been  lived 
in  human  reality.  The  best  ideal  of  all 
has  to  be  portrayed  by  the  parents  in  the 
realities  of  life  at  home.  The  teaching 
that  goes  deepest  will  be  indirect,  and  the 
truth  will  tell  most  on  them  when  it  is 
overheard.  When  you  are  not  watching, 
and  the  children  are — that  is  when  the 
lessons  are  learned  for  life." 

These  are  twentieth-century  thoughts, 
and  they  are  pregnant  with  the  truth 
which  will  yet  make  the  world  glad.  One 
thing  which  impresses  the  reader,  in  all 
Mr.  Massey's  works,  is  his  sincerity  and  his 
abhorrence  of  hypocrisy  or  shams  of  any 
kind.  This  thought,  which  is  present  in 
all  his  writings,  is  emphasized  in  the  fol- 
lowing passage  from  his  "Devil  of  Dark- 
ness" :  — 

"  The  devil  and  hell  of  my  creed  consist 
in  that  natural  Nemesis  which  follows  on 


21 


broken  laws,  and  dogs  the  law  breaker,  in 
spite  of  any  belief  of  his  that  his  sins  and 
their  inevitable  results  can  be  so  cheaply 
sponged  out,  as  he  has  been  misled  to 
think,  through  the  shedding  of  innocent 
blood.  Nature  knows  nothing  of  the  for- 
giveness for  sin.  She  has  no  rewards  or 
punishments — nothing  but  causes  and  con- 
sequences. For  example,  if  you  should 
contract  a  certain  disease  and  pass  it  on  to 
your  children  and  their  children,  all  the 
alleged  forgiveness  of  God  will  be  of  no 
avail  if  you  cannot  forgive  yourself.  Ours 
is  the  devil  of  heredity,  working  in  two 
worlds  at  once.  Ours  is  a  far  more  terrible 
way  of  realizing  the  hereafter,  when  it  is 
brought  home  to  us  in  concrete  fact, 
whether  in  this  life  or  the  life  to  come, 
than  any  abstract  idea  of  hell  or  devil  can 
afford.  We  have  to  face  the  facts  before- 
hand —  no  use  to  whine  over  them  impot- 
ently  afterwards,  when  it  is  too  late.  For 
example  :  — 

22 


In  the  olden  days  when  immortals 

To  earth  came  visibly  down, 
There  went  a  youth  with  an  angel 

Through  the  gate  of  an  Eastern  town. 
They  passed  a  dog  by  the  roadside, 

Where  dead  and  rotting  it  lay, 
And  the  youth,  at  the  ghastly  odor, 

Sickened  and  turned  away. 
He  gathered  his  robes  around  him, 

And  hastily  hurried  thence  ; 
But  nought  annoyed  the  angel's 

Clear,  pure,  immortal  sense. 

By  came  a  lady,  lip-luscious, 

On  delicate,  mincing  feet ; 
All  the  place  grew  glad  with  her  presence, 

All  the  air  about  her  sweet, 
For  she  came  in  fragrance  floating, 

And  her  voice  most  silvery  rang  ; 
And  the  youth,  to  embrace  her  beauty, 

With  all  his  being  sprang. 
A  sweet,  delightsome  lady : 

And  yet,  the  legend  saith, 
The  angel,  while  he  passed  her, 

Shuddered  and  held  his  breath ! 


23 


"Only  think  of  a  fine  lady  who,  in  this 
life,  had  been  wooed  and  flattered,  sumptu- 
ously clad  and  delicately  fed ;  for  whom  the 
pure,  sweet  air  of  heaven  had  to  be  per- 
fumed as  incense,  and  the  red  rose  of  health 
had  to  fade  from  many  young  human  faces 
to  blossom  in  the  robes  she  wore,  whose 
every  sense  had  been  most  daintily  feasted, 
and  her  whole  life  summed  up  in  one  long 
thought  of  self, —  think  of  finding  herself 
in  the  next  life  a  spiritual  leper,  a  walking 
pestilence,  personified  disease,  a  sloughing 
sore  of  this  life  which  the  spirit  has  to  get 
rid  of,  an  excrement  of  this  life's  selfishness 
at  which  all  good  spirits  stop  their  noses 
and  shudder  when  she  comes  near!  Don't 
you  think  if  she  realized  that  as  a  fact  in 
time,  it  would  work  more  effectually  than 
much  preaching  ?  The  hell  of  the  drunk- 
ard, the  libidinous,  the  blood-thirsty,  or 
gold-greedy  soul,  they  tell  us,  is  the  burn- 
ing of   the   old,  devouring   passion   which 

24 


was  not  quenched  by  the  chills  of  death. 
The  crossing  of  the  cold,  dark  river,  even, 
was  only  as  the  untasted  water  to  the 
consuming  thirst  of  Tantalus  !  In  support 
of  this,  evolution  shows  the  continuity  of 
ourselves,  our  desires,  passions  and  char- 
acters. As  the  Egyptians  said,  "  Whoso  is 
intelligent  here  will  be  intelligent  there  ! ,: 
And  if  we  haven't  mastered  and  disciplined 
our  lower  passions  here,  they  will  be  mas- 
ters of  us,  for  the  time  being,  hereafter.'' 

In  lyric  verse  Gerald  Massey  ranks 
among  the  first  English  poets.  His  des- 
criptions of  humble  life,  portrayal  of  pro- 
foundly human  sentiments,  and  exquisitely 
delicate  reflections  of  those  subtle  emotions 
which  are  the  common  heritage  of  every 
true  man  and  woman,  have  rarely  been 
equalled.  They  reveal  the  power  of  the 
true  poet.  Take,  for  example,  the  follow- 
ing stanzas  selected  from  "  Babe  Christa- 
bel,"  and  note  the  purity,  wealth  of  feeling 


2o 


and  beauty  of  expression  which  clothe  the 
simple  story  of  dawn  and  night  in  the 
human  heart :  — 

Babe  Christabel  was  royally  born  ! 

For  when  the  earth  was  flushed  with  flowers, 
And  drenched  with  beauty  in  sunshowers, 

She  came  through  golden  gates  of  morn. 

No  chamber  arras-pictured  round, 

Where  sunbeams  make  a  gorgeous  gloom, 
And  touch  its  glories  into  bloom, 

And  footsteps  fall  withouten  sound, 

Was  her  birth-place  that  merry  May  morn  ; 
No  gifts  were  heaped,  no  bells  were  rung, 
No  healths  were  drunk,  no  songs  were  sung, 

When  dear  Babe  Christabel  was  born  : 

But  nature  on  the  darling  smiled, 

And  with  her  beauty's  blessings  crowned  : 
Love  brooded  o'er  the  hallowed  ground, 

And  there  were  angels  with  the  child. 


26 


The  father,  down  in  toil's  mirk  mine, 
Turns  to  his  wealthier  world  above, 
Its  radiance,  and  its  home  of  love  ; 

And  lights  his  life  like  sun-struck  wine. 

The  mother  moves  with  queenlier  tread 
Proud  swell  the  globes  of  ripe  delight 
Above  her  heart,  so  warm  and  white 

A  pillow  for  the  baby-head  ! 


She  grew  a  sweet  and  sinless  child, 
In  shine  and  shower,  calm  and  strife  ; 
A  rainbow  on  our  dark  of  life, 

From  love's  own  radiant  heaven  down-smiled  ! 

In  lonely  loveliness  she  grew, — 
A  shape  all  music,  light,  and  love, 
With  startling  looks,  so  eloquent  of 

The  spirit  whitening  into  view. 


And  still  her  cheek  grew  pale  as  pearl, — 
It  took  no  tint  of  summer's  wealth 
Of  color,  warmth,  and  wine  of  health  : 

Death's  hand  so  whitely  pressed  the  girl ! 


27 


No  blush  grew  ripe  to  sun  or  kiss 
Where  violet  veins  ran  purple  light, 
So  tenderly  through  Parian  white, 

Touching  you  into  tenderness. 


She  came  —  as  comes  the  light  of  smiles 
O'er  earth,  and  every  budding  thing 
Makes  quick  with  beauty,  alive  with  spring  ; 

Then  goeth  to  the  golden  isles. 

She  came  —  like  music  in  the  night 

Floating  as  heaven  in  the  brain, 

A  moment  oped,  and  shut  again, 
And  all  is  dark  where  all  was  lisrht. 

She  thought  our  good-night  kiss  was  given, 
And  like  a  flower  her  life  did  close. 
Angels  uncurtained  that  repose, 

And  the  next  waking  dawned  in  heaven. 

They  snatched  our  little  tenderling, 

So  shyly  opening  into  view, 

Delighted,  as  the  children  dc 
The  primrose  that  is  first  in  spring 


28 


The  lines  quoted  above  are  taken  from 
various  parts  of  the  poem,  and  therefore  do 
not  present  the  unity  of  thought  which 
characterizes  the  exquisite  creation  as  a 
whole.  "My  Cousin  Winnie"  is  another 
very  charming  poem,  in  which  the  author 
describes  the  child  love  which  throbbed  in 
his  heart,  when,  as  a  boy,  he  basked  in  the 
smiles  of  "  Cousin  Winnie."  I  have  space 
for  a  few  stanzas  only.  They  will  be  suffi- 
cient, however,  to  call  up  many  long- 
vanished  images  to  the  mind  of  the  reader. 
For  the  chambers  of  the  human  brain  are 
stored  with  springtime  treasures,  which  are 
forgotten  until  some  magic  word  is  spoken, 
some  picture  flashed  upon  the  mental 
retina,  or  a  sound  of  long  ago  is  heard, 
and  straightway  the  sealed  door  flies  open, 
and  forth  come  trooping,  as  children  from 
a  country  school,  the  dreams  and  hopes 
which  gilded  life's  young  day  :  — 


29 


The  glad  spring  green  grows  luminous 

With  coming  summer's  golden  glow ; 
Merry  birds  sing  as  they  sang  to  us 

In  far-off  seasons,  long  ago  : 
The  old  place  brings  the  young  dawn  back, 

That  moist  eyes  mirror  in  their  dew  ; 
My  heart  goes  forth  along  the  track 

Where  oft  it  danced,  dear  Winnie,  with  yon, 
A  world  of  time,  a  sea  of  change, 

Have  rolled  between  the  paths  we  tread, 
Since  you  were  my  "  Cousin  Winnie,"  and  I 

Was  your  "  own  little,  good  little  Ned." 

My  being  in  your  presence  basked, 

And  kitten-like  for  pleasure  purred ; 
A  higher  heaven  I  never  asked 

Than  watching,  wistf ul  as  a  bird, 
To  hear  that  voice  so  rich  and  low ; 

Or  sun  me  in  the  rosy  rise 
Of  some  soul-ripening  smile,  and  know 

The  thrill  of  opening  paradise. 
The  boy  might  look  too  tenderly  — 

All  lightly  'twas  interpreted  : 
You  were  my  "  Cousin  Winnie,"  and  I 

Was  your  "  own  little,  good  little  Ned." 

30 


And  then  that  other  voice  came  in ! 

There  my  life's  music  suddenly  stopped. 
Silence  and  darkness  fell  between 

Us,  and  my  star  from  heaven  dropped. 
I  led  him  by  the  hand  to  you  — 

He  was  my  friend  —  whose  name  you  bear : 
I  had  prayed  for  some  great  task  to  do, 

To  prove  my  love,     I  did  it,  dear  ! 
He  was  not  jealous  of  poor  me ; 

Nor  saw  my  life  bleed  under  his  tread  : 
You  were  my  "  Cousin  Winnie,"  and  I 

Was  your  "own  little,  good  little  Ned." 

I  smiled,  dear,  at  your  happiness  — 

So  martyrs  smile  upon  the  spears  — 
The  smile  of  your  reflected  bliss 

Flashed  from  my  heart's  dark  tarn  of  tears  ! 
In  love  that  made  the  suffering  sweet, 

My  blessing  with  the  rest  was  given  — 
"  God's  softest  flowers  kiss  her  feet 

On  earth,  and  crown  her  head  in  heaven  !  " 

And  lest  the  heart  should  leap  to  tell 
Its  tale  i'  the  eyes,  I  bowed  the  head : 

You  were  my  "  Cousin  Winnie,"  and  I 
Was  your  "  own  little,  good  little  Ned." 

#  *  #  #  *  * 

31 


Alone,  unwearying,  year  by  year, 

I  go  on  laying  up  my  love, 
I  think  God  makes  no  promise  here 

But  it  shall  be  fulfilled  above ; 
I  think  my  wild  weed  of  the  waste 

Will  one  day  prove  a  flower  most  sweet ; 
My  love  shall  bear  its  fruit  at  last  — 

'Twill  all  be  righted  when  we  meet ; 
And  I  shall  find  them  gathered  up 

In  pearls  for  you  —  the  tears  I've  shed 
Since  you  were  my  "  Cousin  Winnie,"  and  I 

Was  your  "  own  little,  good  little  Ned." 

Here  again  in  u  The  Mother's  Idol 
Broken  "  — which,  in  my  judgment,  is  the 
finest  work  of  this  character  written  by 
Mr.  Massey  —  we  find  a  depth  of  emotion, 

a  beauty  of  imagery,  and  a  wealth  of  pure 
poetic  power  which  would  have  done  honor 
to  Tennyson  in  the  best  moods  of  the  late 
poet  laureate. 

After  describing  the  mother's  joy  over 
the  advent  of  the  babe  in  the  household, 
our  poet  continues  :  — 

32 


And  proud      ere  her   eyes  as  she  rose   with  the 
prize, 
A  pearl  in  her  palms,  my  peerless ! 

Oh,  found  you  a  little  sea  siren, 

In  some  perilous  palace  left? 
Or  is  it  a  little  child  angel, 

Of  her  high-born  kin  bereft  ? 
Or  came  she  out  of  the  elfin  land, 

By  earthly  love  beguiled  ? 
Or  hath  the  sweet  spirit  of  beauty 

Taken  shape  as  our  starry  child? 

With  mystical  faint  fragrance, 

Our  house  of  life  she  filled  — 
Revealed  each  hour  some  fairy  tower, 

Where  winged  hopes  might  build. 

We  saw  —  though  none  like  us  might  see  — 

Such  precious  promise  pearled 
Upon  the  petals  of  our  wee 

White  Rose  of  all  the  world ! 

Our  Rose  was  but  in  blossom ; 
Our  life  was  but  in  spring ; 


33 


When  down  the  solemn  midnight 

We  heard  the  spirits  sing  : 
"  Another  bud  of  infancy ', 

With  holy  dews  impearled^ 
And  in  their  hands  they  bore  our  wee 

W  hite  Rose  of  all  the  world. 

She  came  like  April,  who  with  tender  grace 
Smiles  in  earth's  face,  and  sets  upon  her  breast 
The  bud  of  all  her  glory  yet  to  come, 
Then  bursts  in  tears,  and  takes  her  sorrowful  leave. 
She  brought  heaven  to  us  just  within  the  space 
Of  the  dear  depths  of  her  large,  dream-like  eyes, 
Then  o'er  the  vista  fell  the  death- veil  dark. 
She  only  caught  three  words  of  human  speech : 
One  for  her  mother,  one  for  me,  and  one 
She  crowed  with,  for  the  fields  and  open  air. 
That  last  she  sighed  with  a  sharp  farewell  pathos 
A  minute  ere  she  left  the  house  of  life, 
To  come  for  kisses  never  any  more. 

Pale  Blossom  !  how  she  leaned  in  love  to  us ! 
And  how   we   feared   a   hand   might   reach   from 

heaven 
To  pluck  our  sweetest  flower,  our  loveliest  flower 


34 


Of  life,  that  sprang  from  lowliest  root  of  love  ! 
Some  tender  trouble  in  her  eyes  complained 
Of  Life's  rude  stream,  as  meek  forget-me-nots 
Make  sweet  appeal  when  winds  and  waters  fret. 
And  oft  she  looked  beyond  us  with  sad  eyes, 
As  for  the  coming  of  the  Unseen  Hand. 
We  saw  ,but  feared  to  speak  of,  her  strange  beauty, 
As  some  hushed  bird   that   dares  not  sing  i'  the 

night, 
Lest  lurking  foe  should  find  its  secret  place, 
And  seize  it  through  the  dark.     With  twin-love's 

strength 
All  crowded  in  the  softest  nestling-touch, 
We  fenced  her  round, — exchanging  silent  looks. 
We  went  about  the  house  with  listening  hearts, 
That  kept  the  watch  for  danger's  stealthiest  step. 
Our  spirits  felt  the  shadow  ere  it  fell. 

The  mornings  came  with  all  their  glory  on  ; 
Birds,  brooks,  and  bees  were  singing  in  the  sun, 
Earth's  blithe  heart  breathing  bloom  into  her  face, 
The  flowers  all  crowding  up  like  memories 
Of  lovelier  life  in  some  forgotten  world, 
Or  dreams  of  peace  and  beauty  yet  to  come. 
The  soft  south-breezes  rocked  the  baby-buds 


In  fondling  arms  upon  a  balmy  breast ; 

And  all  was  gay  as  universal  life 

Swam  down  the  stream  that  glads  the  City  of  God. 

But  we  lay  dark  where  Death  had  struck  us  down 
With  that  stern  blow  which  made  us  bleed  within, 
And  bow  while  the  Inevitable  went  by. 

jjt  -Jfe  -4fe  «4t*  --&  Jfc 

•7T  -vr  TT  "7T  -7V"  TT 

This  is  a  curl  of  little  Marian's  hair  ! 

A  ring  of  sinless  gold  that  weds  two  worlds ! 

Poetic  genius  of  a  high  order  is  dis- 
played in  this  remarkable  production,  and 
though  the  extracts  given  above  carry 
with  them  the  spirit  of  the  poem,  they  are 
only  threads  in  what,  when  taken  as  a 
whole,  is  a  cloth  of  many  tints,  rich  in 
color  and  fine  in  texture. 

Seldom  do  we  find  anything  so  pure  and 
sweet  as  the  following  lines  taken  from 
"Wedded  Love,"  in  which  the  poet  gives 
us  a  glimpse  of  his  own  deep  and  rich 
experiences  :  — 


36 


My  life  ran  like  a  river  in  rocky  ways, 
And  seaward  dashed,  a  sounding  cataract ! 
But  thine  was  like  a  quiet  lake  of  beauty, 
Soft-shadowed  round  by  gracious  influences, 
That  gathers  silently  its  wealth  of  earth, 
And  woos  heaven  till  it  melts  down  into  it. 

They  mingled  :  and  the  glory  and  the  calm 
Closed  round  me,  brooding  into  perfect  rest. 
Oh,  blessings  on  thy  true  and  tender  heart ! 
How  it  hath  gone  forth  like  the  dove  of  old, 
To  bring  some  leaf  of  promise  in  life's  deluge ! 
Thou  hast  a  strong  up-soaring  tendency, 
That  bears  me  Godward,  as  the  stalwart  oak 
Uplifts  the  clinging  vine,  and  gives  it  growth  . 
Thy  reverent  heart  familiarly  doth  take 
Unconscious  clasp  of  high  and  holy  things, 
And  trusteth  where  it  may  not  understand. 
We  have  had  sorrows,  love  !  and  wept  the  tears 
That  run  the  rose-hue  from  the  cheeks  of  life  ; 
But  grief  hath  jewels  as  night  hath  her  stars, 
And  she  revealeth  what  we  ne'er  had  known, 
With  joy's  wreath  tumbled  o'er  our  blinded  eyes. 
The  heart  is  like  an  instrument  whose  strings 
Steal  nobler  music  from  life's  many  frets  ; 


37 


The  golden  threads    are  spun  through   suffering's 

fire, 
Wherewith    the   marriage   robes    for   heaven    are 

woven ; 
And  all  the  rarest  hues  of  human  life 
Take  radiance,  and  are  rainbowed  out  in  tears. 

Thou'rt  little  changed,  dear  love !    since  we  were 

wed. 
Thy  beauty  hath  climaxed  like  a  crescent  moon, 
With  glory  greatening  to  the  golden  full. 
Thy  flowers  of  spring    are  crowned  with  summer 

fruits, 
And  thou  hast  put  a  queenlier  presence  on 
With  thy  regality  of  womanhood ! 
Yet  time  but  toucheth  thee  with  mellowing  shades 
That  set  thy  graces  in  a  wealthier  light. 
Thy  soul  still  looks  with  its  rare  smile  of  love, 
From  the  gate  beautiful  of  its  palace  home, 
Fair  as  the  spirit  of  the  evening  star, 
That  lights  its  glory  as  a  radiant  porch 
To  beacon  earth  with  brighter  glimpse  of  heaven. 
We  are  poor   in  this  world's  wealth,  but  rich  in 

love  ; 
And  they  who  love  feel  rich  in  everything. 

38 


Oh,  let  us  walk  the  world,  so  that  our  love 
Burn  like  a  blessed  beacon,  beautiful 
Upon  the  walls  of  life's  surrounding  dark. 
Ah  !  what  a  world  'twould  be  if  love  like  ours 
Made   heaven  in  human  hearts,  and  clothed  with 

smiles 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  our  humanity ! 

In  "The  Young  Poet  to  His  Wife  "  are 
many  fine  lines,  perhaps  none  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  following  :  — 

O,  Love  will  make  the  killing  crown  of  thorn 
Burst  into  blossom  on  the  Martyr's  brow  ! 
Upon  Love's  bosom  Earth  floats  like  an  Ark 
Through  all  the  o'erwhelming  deluge  of  the  night. 
Love  rays  us  round  as  glory  swathes  a  star, 
And  from  the  mystic  touch  of  lips  and  palms, 
Streams  rosy  warmth  enough  to  light  a  world. 

Among  Mr.  Massey's  personal  poems 
his  tribute  to  the  author  of  "  The  Song 
of  the  Shirt,"  is  by  far  the  finest.  Indeed, 
this  poem  is  a  superb  production.  The 
melancholy    spectacle    of     Hood    battling 


39 


with  disease,  bravely  editing  his  maga- 
zine and  composing  immortal  lines  while 
confined  to  his  bed  and  racked  with  pain 
was  enough  to  appeal  to  the  imagination 
and  sympathy  of  a  large-hearted  nature  like 
Gerald  Massey's.  And  then  these  two 
champions  of  the  poor  were  kindred  souls. 
He  who  wrote  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs " 
was  naturally  endeared  to  the  poet  who 
penned  "  The  Cry  of  the  Unemployed." 
Hood  was  worthy  of  the  following  tribute, 
which  I  regard  as  among  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  Massey's  work  :  — 

'Twas  the  old  story !  —  ever  the  blind  world 

Knows  not  its  Angels  of  Deliverance 

Till  they  stand  glorified  'twixt  earth  and  heaven. 

It  stones  the  Martyr  ;  then,  with  praying  hands, 

Sees  the  God  mount  his  chariot  of  fire, 

And   calls   sweet    names,   and    worships    what   it 

spurned. 
It  slays  the  Man  to  deify  the  Christ : 
And  then  how  lovingly  'twill  bind  the  brows 


40 


Where  late    its    thorn-crown    laughed   with   cruel 

lips  — 
Red,  and  rejoicing  from  the  killing  kiss  ! 
To  those  who  walk  beside  them,  great  men  seem 
31  ere    common    earth ;   but    distance    makes   them 

stars. 

As  dying  limbs  do  lengthen  out  in  death, 

So  grows  the  stature  of  their  after-fame  ; 

And  then  we  gather  up  their  glorious  words, 

And  treasure  up  their  names  with  loving  care. 

So  Hood,  our  Poet,  lived  his  martyr-life  ; 

With  a  swift  soul  that  travelled  at  such  speed, 

And  struck  such  flashes  from  its  flinty  road, 

That  by  its  trail  of  radiance  through  the  dark, 

We  almost  see  the  unfeatured  Future's  face, — 

And  went  uncrowned  to  his  untimely  tomb. 

'Tis  true,  the  world  did  praise  his  glorious  wit  — 

The  merry  Jester  with  his  cap  and  bells  ! 

And  sooth,  his  wit  was  like  IthuriePs  spear  ; 

But    'twas  mere  lightening  from  the  cloud  of  his 

*     life, 
Which  held  at  heart  most  rich  and  blessed  rain 

Of  tear's  melodious,  that  are  worlds  of  love  ; 

And  Rainbows  that   would   bridge  from  earth  to 

heaven  ; 

And  Light,  that  should  have  shone  like  Joshua's  sun 

41 


Above  our  long  death-grapple  with  the  Wrong ; 
And  thunder- voices,  with  their  Words  of  fire, 
To  melt  the  slaves  chain,  and  the  Tyrant's  crown. 
His  wit?  —  a  kind  smile  just  to  hearten  us  !  — 
Rich  foam- wreaths  on  the  waves  of  lavish  life, 
That  flashed  o'er  precious  pearls  and  golden  sands. 
But,  there  was  that  beneath  surpassing  wit ! 
The  starry  soul,  that  shines  when  all  is  dark !  — 
Endurance,  that  can  suffer  and  grow  strong  — 
Walk  through  the  world  with  bleeding  feet,  and 

smile !  — 
Love's  inner  light,  that  kindles  Life's  rare  colours, 
Bright  wine  of  Beauty  for  the  longing  soul ; 
And   thoughts  that   swathe   Humanity  with   such 

glory 
As  lines  the  outline  of  the  coming  God. 
In  him  were  gleams  of  such  heroic  splendour 
As  light  this  cold,  dark  world  up  like  a  star 
Arrayed  in  glory  for  the  eyes  of  heaven  : 
And  a  great  heart  that  beat  according  music 
With  theirs  of  old,  —  God-likest  kings  of  men ! 
A   conquering    heart !    which   Circumstance,    that 

frights 
The  many  down  from  Love's  transfiguring  height, 
Aye  mettled  into  martial  attitude. 
He  might  have  clutched  the  palm  of  Victory 

42 


In  the  world's  wrestling- ring  of  noble  deeds ; 
But  he  went  down  a  precious  Argosy 
At  sea,  just  glimmering  into  sight  of  shore, 
With  its  rare  freightage  from  diviner  climes. 
While  friends  were  crowding  at  the  Harbour  mouth 
To  meet  and  welcome  the  brave  Sailor  back, 
He  saw,  and  sank  in  sight  of  them  at  home  ! 
The  world  may  never  know  the  wealth  it  lost, 
When  Hood  went  darkling  to  his  tearful  tomb, 
So  mighty  in  his  undeveloped  force  ! 
With  all  his  crowding  unaccomplished  hopes  — 
Th'  unuttered  wealth  and  glory  of  his  soul  — 
And  all  the  music  ringing  round   his  life, 
And  poems  stirring  in  his  dying  brain. 
But  blessings  on  him  for  the  songs  he  sang  — 
Which  yearned  about  the  world  till  then  for  birth ! 
How  like  a  bonny  bird  of  God  he  came, 
And  poured  his  heart  in  music  for  the  Poor  ; 
Who  sit  in  gloom  while  sunshine  floods  the  land, 
And  grope  through  darkness,  for  the  hand  of  Help. 
And  trampled  Manhood    heard,   and   claimed  its 

crown ; 
And  trampled  Womanhood  sprang  up  ennobled ! 
The  human  soul  looked  radiantly  through  rags  ! 
And  there  was  melting  of  cold  hearts,  as  when 
The  ripening  sunlight  fingers  frozen  flowers. 


43 


O  !  blessings  on  him  for  the  songs  he  sang  ! 
When  all  the  stars  of  happy  thought  had  set 
In  many  a  mind,  his  spirit  walked  the  gloom 
Clothed  on  with  beauty,  as  the  regal  Moon 
Walks  her  night-kingdom,  turning  clouds  to  light. 
Our  Champion  !  with  his  heart  too  big  to  beat 
In  bonds, —  our  Poet  in  his  pride  of  power ! 
Aye,  we'll  remember  him  who  fought  our  fight, 
And  chose  the  Martyr's  robe  of  flame,  and  spurned 
The  gold  and  purple  of  the  glistering  slave. 
His  Mausoleum  is  the  People's  heart, 
There  he  lies  crowned  and  glorified, —  in  state. 

Many  of  Europe's  most  competent  and 
conscientious  critics  have  expressed  their 
appreciation  of  the  high  order  of  much  of 
Mr.  Massey's  poetical  work.  "  I  rejoice/' 
wrote  John  Euskin  to  the  poet,  "in  ac- 
knowledging my  own  debt  of  gratitude  to 
you  for  many  an  encouraging  and  noble 
thought,  and  expression  of  thought.  Few 
national  services  can  be  greater  than  that 
you  have  rendered."  Thomas  Aird,  in 
a    critical     review,     observed :      "  Gerald 

44 


Massey  belongs  to  the  new  choir.  Pathos 
and  love  and  a  purple  flush  of  beauty 
steep  the  color  of  all  his  songs."  The 
eminent  essayist,  Walter  Bagehot,  in  criti- 
cising Mr.  Massey' s  work,  said  :  "  His 
descriptions  of  nature  show  a  close  ob- 
server of  her  ways,  and  a  delicate  apprecia- 
tion of  her  beauties.  His  images,  however 
subtle  and  delicately  woven,  are  never 
false/' 

Here  are  some  melodious  stanzas  which 
tell  us  of  the  poet's  hope  for  a  brighter 
tomorrow,  a  hope  which  he  entertained 
before  his  long  and  careful  psychical  inves- 
tigation, led  to  the  positive  conviction 
expressed  in  his  later  prose  and  poetical 
works : 


Although  its  features  fade  in  light  of  unimagined 

bliss, 
We  have  shadowy  revealings  of  the  Better  World 

in  this : 


45 


A  little  glimpse,  when  Spring  unveils  her  face  and 

opes  her  eyes, 
Of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the  soul  that  wakes  in 

Paradise. 

A  little  drop  of   Heaven  in   each  diamond  of  the 

shower, 
A  breath  of  the  Eternal  in  the  fragrance  of  each 

flower  ! 

A  little  low  vibration  in  the  warble  of  Night's  bird, 
Of  the  praises  and  the  music  that  shall  be  hereafter 
heard ! 

A  little  whisper  in  the  leaves  that  clap  their  hands 

and  try 
To  glad  the  heart  of  man,  and  lift  to  Heaven  his 

grateful  eye. 

A  little  semblance  mirrored  in  old  Ocean's  smile  or 

frown 
Of  His  vast  glory  who  doth  bow  the  Heavens  and 

come  down ! 

A  little    symbol   shining  through   the  worlds  that 

move  at  rest 
On  invisible   foundations   of  the   broad   Almighty 

breast ! 

40 


A  little  hint  that  stirs  and  thrills  the  wings  we  fold 

within, 
And  tells  of  that  full  heaven  yonder   which  must 

here  begin  ! 

A  little  springlet  welling  from  the  fountain  head 

above, 
That  takes  its   earthly  way  to  find  the   ocean   of 

all  love ! 

A  little  silver  shiver  in  the  ripple  of  the  river 
Caught  from  the  light  that  knows  no  night  forever 
and  forever ! 

A  little  hidden  likeness,  often  faded  or  defiled, 
Of  the  great,  the  good  All-father,  in  His  poorest 
human  child ! 

Although  the  best  be   lost  in  light  of  unimagined 

bliss, 
We  have  shadowy  revealings  of  the  Better  World 

in  this. 

As  I  have  said  before,  there  is  little 
doubt  but  that  Gerald  Massey  would  have 
become  one  of  England's  most  famous  lyric 
poets,  had  he  chosen  to  confine  his  gifts  to 

47 


subjects  pleasing  to  wealth  and  convention- 
alism ;  but,  like  other  royal  souls,  who 
throughout  the  past  have  persistently  held 
to  the  path  of  duty,  he  chose  to  be  loyal  to 
truth  and  faithful  to  earth's  oppressed,  ever 
preferring  the  bread  of  poverty  with  the 
approval  of  his  higher  self,  to  the  applause 
of  the  dilettanti  with  a  life  of  comparative 
ease.  Such  spirits  are  rarely  appreciated 
until  they  have  passed  from  earth.  They 
belong  to  the  Royalty  of  Nature ;  they 
are  in  truth  the  Sons  of  God. 


43 


"  Immortal  Liberty,  we  see  thee  stand, 
Like  morn  just  stepped  from  heaven,  tifion  a  mountain." 


if.    Gbe  propbet 

►HE  reformer  is  always  the  possi- 
ble prophet.     He  whose  nature 
is  so  finely   strung   and  whose 
conscience    so    sensitive    to    the    eternal 
verities  as  they  relate  to  right  and  wrong 
that  he   feels   injuries   inflicted  upon   the 
unfortunate  and   injustice   practised  upon 
the   defenceless    as    though    the   evil  fell 
upon  himself,  sustains    an    intimate  rela- 
tionship   to   the    highest   as   well   as  the 
humblest  expressions  of  life.     If  the  cry  of 
the  wretch   under  the   wheel  wrings   his 
heart,  he  is  also  soothed  by  divine  sympho- 
nies, which  those  of  duller  sensibilities  are 
unconscious  of ;  and  upon  his  spiritual  per- 
ception  there   frequently  flash  the  lights 
and  shadows  of   the  coming   morrow.     It 


49 


was  thus  with  the  great  prophets  of  Israel. 
It  was  thus  with  John  Huss  and  Savon- 
arola. It  was  thus  with  Whittier  and 
Wendell  Phillips.  And  it  is  thus,  in  a  very 
marked  degree,  with  Gerald  Massey. 

It  is  something  more  than  an  unconquer- 
able faith  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  good, 
learned  from  the  slow  ascent  of  man,  that 
inspires  the  following  thrilling  lines,  which 
are  peculiarly  appropriate  to  our  present 
social  conditions,  when  a  new-born  sense  of 
right  and  a  quickened  intelligence  are 
leading  millions  throughout  civilization  to 
demand  a  fairer  share  in  the  bounties  of 
life:  — 

Immortal  liberty !  we  see  thee  stand 

Like   morn  just   stepped   from  heaven   upon   a 
mountain 
With  beautiful  feet,  and  blessing- laden  hand, 

And  heart  that  welleth  love's  most  living  fountain! 
Oh,  when  wilt  thou  draw  from  the  people's  lyre 

Joy's  broken  cord  ?  and  on  the  people's  brow 


50 


Set  empire's  crown  ?  light  up  thine  altar-fire 

Within  their  hearts,  with  an  undying  glow  ; 
Nor  give  us  blood  for  milk,  as  men  are  drunk  with 
now? 

Old  legends  tell  us  of  a  golden  age, 

When  earth   was  guiltless  —  gods  the  guests  of 
men, 
Ere  sin  had  dimmed  the  heart's  illumined  page, — 

And  prophet- voices  say  'twill  come  again, 
O  happy  age  !  when  love  shall  rule  the  heart, 

And  time  to  live  shall  be  the  poor  man's  dower, 
When  martyrs  bleed  no  more,  nor  exiles  smart  — 

Mind  is  the  only  diadem  of  power. 
People,  it  ripens  now  !  Awake,  and  strike  the  hour ! 

Hearts,  high  and  mighty,  gather  in  our  cause  ; 

Bless,  bless,  O  God,  and  crown  their  earnest  labor, 
Who  dauntless  fight  to  win  us  equal  laws, 

With  mental  armor  and  with  spirit  sabre ! 
Bless,  bless,  O  God  !  the  proud  intelligence, 

That  now  is  dawning  on  the  people's  forehead, — 
Humanity  springs  from  them  like  incense, 

The  future  bursts  upon  them,   boundless,  star- 
ried  — 
They  weep  repentant  tears,  that  they  so  long  have 
tarried. 

51 


The  spiritual  intuition  or  perception  of 
the  true  prophet  soul  was  beautifully 
expressed  in  the  legend  of  the  despairing 
sage.  The  story  comes  from  that  far- 
away time  when  types  and  symbols  were 
used  by  the  children  of  earth,  and  when 
man  was  so  near  to  nature  that  at  times  he 
seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  Creator. 

The  sage,  so  runs  the  story,  had  toiled 
for  his  fellow-men  through  years  of  suffer- 
ing and  privation.  He  had  closed  his  eyes 
against  the  temptations  of  luxury  and  ease 
which  were  held  out  to  lure  him  from  the 
service  of  his  race.  He  had  dwelt  with 
poverty  and  had  nursed  the  plague-stricken, 
had  fed  the  starving,  always  striving  to 
fix  the  eyes  of  his  fellow-men  upon  that 
which  was  enduring  and  divine.  He  rea- 
soned with  scholars  on  the  higher  philos- 
ophy of  life,  and  strove  to  impress  upon 
them  the  kinship  of  mankind.  He  appealed 
to  the  rich  to  be  just,  and  boldly  assailed 

52 


tyranny  and  oppression.  Often  he  had  to 
fly  from  city  to  city,  and  sometimes  he  was 
offered  great  bribes  to  hold  his  peace.  But 
neither  the  threat  of  power  nor  the  bribe 
of  wealth  swerved  him  from  his  course. 
His  all-consuming  desire  was  to  bring  about 
the  realization  of  the  dream  which  haunted 
his  soul.  He  longed  to  behold  justice, 
peace  and  love  blossom  among  the  children 
of  men. 

At  length  he  became  a  very  old  man; 
his  hair  was  silvered,  his  face  bronzed  and 
furrowed,  his  step  halting  and  feeble. 
Many  who  had  followed  him  when  he  had 
been  able  to  minister  to  their  physical  needs 
now  fell  away,  and  the  seeds  he  had 
planted  seemed  to  have  rotted  and  died. 
One  day  he  sought  the  solitude  of  the 
moutains  and  in  bitterness  of  soul  prayed 
that  he  might  die;  in  his  depression  of 
spirit  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  lived 
in  vain,  and  the  future  appeared  to  be  in 


53 


the  possession  of  the  powers  of  darkness. 
Virtue,  love  and  peace  seemed  routed  all 
along  the  line  of  human  endeavor.     . 

While  lost  in  prayer,  so  runs  this  legend, 
the  sage  became  overcome  with  a  sense 
of  peace  known  only  to  the  victor  in  a 
glorious  cause.  Then  the  heaviness  of 
earth  fell  away  ;  his  soul  entered  an  ecsta- 
tic condition ;  his  spirit  was  borne  aloft  in 
a  chariot  of  luminous  clouds  upheld  and 
guided  by  invisible  hands.  At  length  his 
eyes  were  opened,  when  lo  !  he  was  encom- 
passed by  a  multitude  of  radiant  souls. 
Then  his  ears  caught  the  symphony  of 
nature;  he  was  bewildered.  The  multi- 
tudes around  him  were  incarnations  of 
light,  of  purity,  of  love  and  wisdom.  They 
were  victors,  and  the  music  which  swelled 
upon  the  ear  was  an  anthem  of  triumph. 

An  angel  of  lofty  mien  appeared,  saying : 
"  Because  of  the  failing  power  of  the  phys- 
ical form,  the  truth  has  become  veiled  to 


54 


thy  vision.  Now  behold  the  work  of  thy 
life." 

Then  to  him  was  given  the  power  of  the 
Universal  Eye.  He  beheld  a  home  where 
now  dwelt  a  father,  once  a  plague-stricken 
boy  nursed  by  the  sage.  The  father  sang 
to  his  son  the  songs  of  love,  courage  and 
brotherhood  which  he  had  learned  from 
the  prophet  long  years  ago.  In  another 
cottage  he  beheld  a  mother  telling  the 
story  of  the  great  man  whose  life  made  all 
men  better,  and  through  whose  loving  care 
the  mother  was  then  alive.  And  he  noted 
the  radiance  in  the  faces  of  the  eager 
children  as  they  exclaimed,  "  We  want  to 
be  like  him  !  " 

Then  he  beheld  one  whom  he  had  taught 
in  years  gone  by  discoursing  to  a  vast  mul- 
titude upon  the  truths  which  the  prophet 
had  in  former  days  impressed  upon  his 
brain.  He  saw  thousands  of  eager  ears 
strained  to    hear   the  evangel   which   fell 


55 


from  the  eloquent  lips  of  one  he  had 
known  as  a  ragged  boy.  who  had  followed 
him  from  village  to  village  with  other 
poor  people.  And  then  the  panorama 
broadened,  until  he  beheld  that  he  had 
all  unconsciously  kindled  fires  for  truth 
which  should  yet  illuminate  his  people. 

Then  the  angel  said,  "  Look  once  more/' 
and  he  beheld  the  tumult  of  battle,  he 
heard  the  screams  of  the  multitude,  who 
sank  on  every  hand.  After  the  battle  came 
injustice  and  oppression ;  he  heard  the  cry 
of  those  under  the  oppressor  and  beheld 
the  sufferings  of  the  world ;  and  as  in 
horror  he  sought  the  angel's  face,  a  light 
dawned.  It  came  from  the  hearts  and 
homes  of  the  multitudes.  Then  the  light 
grew  brighter;  it  spread  from  hut  to 
cottage,  from  cottage  to  palace.  A  new 
conflict  was  in  progress.  Man  met  man  in 
a  struggle  on  a  higher  plane  ;  ideas  were 
weapons  more  often  than  swords,  and  in 

56 


the  dim  future  the  sage  saw  the  whole 
world  bathed  in  the  light  of  justice,  man- 
tled in  peace  and  prosperity. 

So  it  is  with  the  reformers  of  all  times. 
At  moments  their  souls,  so  sensitive  and 
responsive  to  the  suffering  and  misery  of 
life,  also  catch  the  strains  of  the  higher 
music.  Their  eyes,  which  see  the  suffering 
of  the  unfortunate  and  the  poor  as  though 
every  trial  was  their  own,  also  at  intervals 
catch  glimpses  of  the  coming  day.  In 
one  of  these  great  visions  Gerald  Massey 
breaks  into  the  following  triumphant 
strain  : 

5  Tis  coming  up  the  steep  of  time, 

And  this  old  world  is  growing  brighter ! 
We  may  not  see  its  dawn  sublime, 

Yet  high  hopes  make  the  heart  throb  lighter ! 
Our  dust  may  slumber  under  ground 

When  it  awakes  the  world  in  wonder  ; 
But  we  have  felt  it  gathering  round  — 

Have  heard  its  voice  of  distant  thunder ! 
'  Tis  coming !    yes,  'tis  coming  ! 

57 


'Tis  coming  now,  that  glorious  time 

Foretold  by  seers  and  sung  in  story, 
For  which,  when  thinking  was  a  crime, 

Souls  leaped  to  heaven  from  scaffolds  gory  ! 
They  passed.     But  lo  !  the  work  they  wrought ! 

Now  the  crowned  hopes  of  centuries  blossom  ; 
The  lightning  of  their  living  thought 

Is  flashing  through  us,  brain  and  bosom  : 
'Tis  coming  !  yes,  'tis  coming  ! 

Creeds,  empires,  systems,  rot  with  age, 

But  the  great  people's  ever  youthful ! 
And  it  shall  write  the  future's  page 

To  our  humanity  more  truthful ; 
There's  a  divinity  within 

That  makes  men  great  if  they  but  will  it , 
God  works  with  all  who  dare  to  win, 

And  the  time  cometh  to  reveal  it. 
'  Tis  coming !  yes, '  tis  coming ! 

Fraternity  !  Love's  other  name  ! 

Dear,  heaven-connecting  link  of  being  ; 
Then  shall  we  grasp  thy  golden  dream, 

As  souls,  full-statured,  grow  far-seeing : 
Thou  shalt  unfold  our  better  part, 

And  in  our  life  cup  yield  more  honey ; 


58 


Light  up  with  joy  the  poor  man's  heart, 

And  love's  own  world  with  smiles  more  sunny  ! 
'  Tis  coming !  yes,  'tis  coming  ! 

Jesus,  who  was  the  supreme  expression 
of  love,  was  terrible  in  His  denunciations 
when  confronted  by  the  hypocrisy  and 
selfishness  of  slothful,  self-indulgent  con- 
ventionalism. Gerald  Massey  has  penned 
some  of  the  sweetest  lines  ever  written  by 
poet  of  the  people,  but  when  he  faces  the 
plunderers  of  the  toiling  millons,  when  he 
looks  upon  the  hypocrite  and  oppressor,  he 
becomes  transformed.  His  words  are  no 
longer  soothing  and  peaceful ;  the  limpid 
brook  becomes  a  roaring  torrent.  The 
voice  which  speaks  in  the  following  lines 
is  not  the  voice  of  one  man,  but  the  articu- 
late cry  of  millions,  thrown  into  speech 
by  the  instrument  of  God,  that  the  wise 
may  be  warned,  and,  being  warned,  may  be 
saved  from  the  ruin  which  must  and  will 
overtake  that  society  which  selfishly  imag- 

59 


ines  it  can  eternally   thwart   the   upward 
march  of  humanity  :  — 

Back,  tramplers  on  the  many !     Death  and  danger 

ambushed  lie  ; 
Beware  ye,  or  the  blood  may   run  !     The  patient 

people  cry : 
"Ah,  shut  not  out  the  light   of  hope,  or  we  may 

blindly  dash, 
Like  Samson  with  his  strong  death -grope,  and  whelm 

ye  in  the  crash. 
Think  how  they  spurred  the  people  mad,  that  old 

regime  of  France, 
Whose  heads,  like  poppies,  from  death's  scythe,  fell 

in  a  bloody  dance. 

In  the  following  stanzas  we  are  re- 
minded of  some  of  the  old  prophets  of 
Israel,  who  championed  the  cause  of  God 
and  the  poor  at  the  risk  of  life,  and  uttered 
luminous  truths  which  still  light  up  mans 
pathway.  Mr.  Massey  is  nothing  if  not  a 
fearless  reformer.  He  does  not  believe  in 
a  half  loaf  when  justice  is  the  issue.     The 

60 


people  have  certain  rights  of  which  they 
are  deprived  by  the  special  privileges 
enjoyed  by  a  favored  few.  Against 
these  wrongs,  which  are  day  by  day  becom- 
ing more  apparent  to  thoughtful  and  truly 
enlightened  men  and  women,  our  poet 
speaks  with  that  courage  and  sincerity 
which  is  as  refreshing  as  it  is  rare  in  our 
age  of  sycophancy  :  — 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  You  weary  me 

With  prayers,  and  waste  your  own  short  years ; 
Eternal  truth  you  cannot  see 

Who  weep,  and  shed  your  sight  in  tears  ! 
In  vain  you  wait  and  watch  the  skies  — 

No  better  fortune  thus  will  fall ; 
Up  from  your  knees  I  bid  you  rise, 

And  claim  the  earth  for  all. 

Behold  in  bonds  your  mother  earth, 
The  rich  man's  prostitute  and  slave  ! 

Your  mother  earth,  that  gave  you  birth, 
You  only  own  her  for  a  grave  ! 

And  will  you  die  like  slaves,  and  see 
Your  mother  left  a  fettered  thrall ! 


61 


Xay  live  like  men  and  set  her  free 
As  heritage  for  all. 

In  the  same  strain,  and  speaking  not  as 
an  individual  but  as  the  articulate  voice  of 
eternal  justice,  Mr.  Massey  elsewhere  utters 
these  words  to  the  toiling  millions  :  — 

Lift  up  your  faces  from  the  sod  ; 

Frown  with  each  furrowed  brow  ; 
Gold  apes  a  mightier  power  than  God, 

And  wealth  is  worshipped  now ! 
In  all  these  toil-ennobled  lands 

You  have  no  heritage  ; 
They  snatch  the  fruit  of  youthful  hands, 

The  staff  from  weary  age. 
Oh,  tell  them  in  their  palaces, 

These  lords  of  land  and  money, 
They  shall  not  kill  the  poor  like  bees, 

To  rob  them  of  life's  honey. 

Through  long,  dark  years  of  blood  and  tears, 
You've  toiled  like  branded  slaves 

Till  wrong's  red  hand  hath  made  a  land 
Of  paupers,  prisons,  graves  ! 


62 


But  our  long  sufferance  endeth  now  ; 

Within  the  souls  of  men 
The  fruitful  buds  of  promise  blow, 

And  freedom  lives  again  ! 
Oh,  tell  them  in  their  palaces, 

These  lords  of  land  and  money, 
They  shall  not  kill  the  poor  like  bees, 

To  rob  them  of  life's  honey. 

In  his  prose  works  he  takes  the  same 
radical  and  uncompromising  stand  for 
absolute  justice  for  the  lowliest.  In  one 
place  he  says  :  — 

"  We  mean  to  have  a  day  of  reckoning 
with  the  unjust  stewards  of  the  earth. 
We  mean  to  have  the  national  property 
restored  to  the  people.  We  mean  that  the 
land,  with  its  inalienable  right  of  living, 
its  mineral  wealth  below  the  soil  and  its 
waters  above,  shall  be  open  to  all.  We 
mean  to  have  our  banking  done  by  the 
state,  and  our  railways  worked  for  the 
benefit  of  the  whole  people.     We  mean  to 

63 


temper  the  terror  of  rampart  individualism 
with  the  principles  of  co-operation.  We 
mean  for  woman  to  have  perfect  equality 
with  man,  social,  religous  and  political,  and 
her  fair  share  in  that  equity  which  is  of  no 
sex.  We  mean  also  that  the  same  stand- 
ard of  morality  shall  apply  to  the  man  as 
to  the  woman.  In  short,  we  intend  that 
the  redress  of  wrongs  and  the  righting  of 
inequalities,  which  can  only  be  rectified  in 
this  world,  shall  not  be  put  off  and  post- 
poned to  any  future  stage  of  existence.' ' 

In  another  place  he  asserts  with  empha- 
sis: — 

"  Humanity  is  one.  The  Eternal  intends 
to  show  us  that  humanity  is  one.  And  the 
family  is  more  than  the  individual  mem- 
ber, the  Nation  is  more  than  the  family, 
and  the  human  race  is  more  than  the 
nation.  And  if  we  do  not  accept  the 
revelation  lovingly,  do  not  take  to  the  fact 
kindly,   why    then    'tis    flashed   upon   us 

64 


terribly,  by  lightning  of  hell,  if  we  will  not 
have  it  by  light  of  heaven  —  and  the  poor, 
neglected  scum  and  canaille  of  the  nations 
rise  up  mighty  in  the  strength  of  disease, 
and  prove  the  oneness  of  humanity  by  kill- 
ing you  with  the  same  infection. 

"It  has  recently  been  shown  how  the  poor 
of  London  do  not  live,  but  fester  in  the 
pestilential  hovels  called  their  homes.  To 
get  into  these  you  have  to  visit  courts 
which  the  sun  never  penetrates,  which  are 
never  visited  by  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and 
which  never  know  the  virtues  of  a  drop  of 
cleansing  water.  Immorality  is  but  the 
natural  outcome  of  such  a  devil's  spawning 
ground.  The  poverty  of  many  who  strive 
to  live  honestly  is  appalling. 

"  And  this  disclosure  is  made  with  the 
customary  moan  that  such  people  attend 
neither  church  nor  chapel,  as  if  that  were 
the  panacea.  I  should  not  wonder  if  these 
revelations  result  in  the  building  of  more 


65 


churches  and  chapels,  and  the  consecration 
of  at  least  one  or  two  more  bishops. 

"  The  Bishop  of  Bedford  said  the  other 
day,  '  It  was  highly  necessary  that  in  these 
times  when  the  poor  have  so  little  earthly 
enjoyment,  the  joys  of  heaven  should  be 
made  known  to  them.'  It  is  not  possible 
to  caricature  an  utterance  so  grotesque  as 
that." 

In  his  songs  of  humanity,  there  is  the 
calm  assurance  of  the  philosopher,  that 
right  will  ultimately  prevail.  He  pleads  for 
the  millions  under  the  rod.  He  may  not 
see  the  false  falling  away  around  him,  but 
far  up  the  mountain  slope  he  sees  the 
purpling  dawn  growing  brighter.  Looking 
backward  he  perceives  that  the  present, 
with  its  hideousness  and  wrong  is  not,  so 
dark  as  the  past,  and  with  that  trust  in  the 
final  triumph  of  right  which  makes  him 
optimistic,  he  thus  refers  to  his  songs  for 
the  oppressed :  — 

66 


Let  my  soags  be  cited 

As  breakers  of  the  peace, 
Till  the  wrongs  are  righted, 

The  man-made  miseries  cease  ; 
Till  earth's  disinherited 
Beg  no  more  to  earn  their  bread ; 
Till  the  consuming  darts  of  burning  day- 
Shall  fire  the  midnight  foxes ;  scare  away 
From  labor's  fruits  the  parasites  of  prey. 

Let  them  die  when  all  is  done, 

Now  victoriously  begun ! 
Our  visions  have  not  come  to  naught, 

Who  saw  by  lightning  in  the  night, 
The  deeds  we  dreamed  are  being  wrought 

By  those  who  work  in  clearer  light ; 
In  other  ways  our  fight  is  fought, 
And  other  forms  fulfill  our  thought 

Made  visible  to  all  men's  sight. 


i»j 


There  is  a  certain  thought-compelling 
power  in  many  of  his  poems  of  labor  found 
only  in  the  work  of  an  enthusiast,  mad 
with  divine  love  for  his  fellow-men.  Often 
he  outlines  upon  his  canvas  a  splendid 
dream,  a  big  hope,  a  grand  aspiration,  and 

67 


then  in  the  foreground  he  paints  with  a 
few  bold  strokes  a  frightful  truth.  The 
antithesis  is  tremendous  in  its  effects,  as 
will  be  seen  in  the  following  stanza  :  — 

When  the  heart  of  one-half  the  world  doth  beat 

Akin  to  the  brave  and  the  true, 
And  the  tramp  of  democracy's  earth-quaking  feet 

Goes  thrilling  the  wide  world  through — 
We  should  not  be  crouching  in  darkness  and  dust, 

And  dying  like  slaves  in  the  night ; 
But  big  with  the  might  of  the  inward  "  must " 

We  should  battle  for  freedom  and  right ! 
Our  fathers  are  praying  for  pauper  pay, 

Our  mothers  with  death's  kiss  are  white  ; 
Our  sons  are  the  rich  man's  serfs  by  day, 

And  our  daughters  his  slaves  by  night. 

Many  of  Massey's  poems  are  as  appli- 
cable to  the  problems  now  confronting  us 
as  if  called  forth  by  present-day  conditions 
in  our  own  land.  Take  for  example  the 
following  "  Cry  of  the  Unemployed,"  which 
reveals  the  profound  sympathy  and  appre- 

6S 


ciation  felt  by  our  poet  for  the  struggling 
unfortunates : — 

'Tis  hard  to  be   a   wanderer   through  this   bright 

world  of  ours, 
Beneath  a  sky  of  smiling  blue,  on  fragrant  paths  of 

flowers, 
With  music  in  the  woods,  as  there  were  nought  but 

pleasure  known, 
Or  Angels  walked  Earth's  solitudes,  and  yet  with 

want  to  groan : 
To  see  no  beauty  in  the  stars,  nor  in  Earth's  wel- 
come smile, 
To  wander  cursed  with  misery  !  willing,  but  cannot 

toil. 
With  burning  sickness  at  my  heart,  I  sink  down 

famished : 
God  of  the  Wretched,  hear  my  prayer :  I  would  that 

I  were  dead ! 

Heaven  droppeth  down  with  manna  still  in  many  a 

golden  shower, 
And  feeds  the   leaves  with   fragrant   breath,  with 

silver  dew  the  flower. 
Honey  and  fruit  for  Bee   and  Bird,   with   bloom 

laughs  out  the  tree, 


And  food   for  all   God's  happy  things ;  but  none 

gives  food  to  me. 
Earth,  wearing  plenty  for  a  crown,  smiles   on  my 

aching  eye, 
The  purse-proud,  —  swathed  in  luxury,  —  disdainful 

pass  me  by  : 
I've  willing  hands,  and  eager  heart  —  but  may  not 

work  for  bread  ! 
God  of  the  Wretched,  hear  my  prayer :  I  would 

that  I  were  dead  ! 

Gold,  art  thou  not  a  blessed  thing,  a  charm  above 

all  other, 
To  shut  up  hearts  to   Nature's  cry,  when  brother 

pleads  with  brother  ? 
Hast  thou  a  music  sweeter  than  the  voice  of  loving 

kindness  V 
No  !  curse  thee,  thou'rt  a  mist  'twixt  God  and  men 

in  outer  blindness. 
"  Father,   come    back " !   my   Children   cry ;    their 

voices,  once  so  sweet, 
Now  pierce  and  quiver  in  my  heart !  I  cannot,  dare 

not  meet 
The  looks  that  make  the   brain  go   mad,  for  dear 

ones  asking  bread  — 
God  of  the  Wretched,  hear  my  prayer :    I  would 

that  I  were  dead ! 

70 


Lord  !  what  right  have  the  poor  to  wed  ?    Love 's 

for  the  gilded  great : 
Are  they  not  formed  of  nobler  clay,  who  dine  off 

golden  plate  ? 
'Tis  the  worst  curse  of  Poverty  to  have  a  feeling 

heart : 
Why  can   I  not,  with  iron   grasp,  choke   out  the 

tender  part  ? 
I   cannot    slave  in  yon  Bastille!    I    think  'twere 

bitterer  pain, 
To  wear  the  Pauper's  iron  within,  than   drag  the 

Convict's  chain. 
I'd  work  but  cannot,  starve  I  may,  but  will  not  beg 

for  bread : 
God  of  the  Wretched,  hear  my  prayer:    I  would 

that  I  were  dead ! 

The  slow  progress  of  justice  frequently 
makes  the  faint-hearted  waver,  and  many 
who  start  out  in  youth  brave  and  valiant 
reformers  are  lured  into  the  toils  of  sloth- 
ful conventionalism,  others  become  des- 
pondent and  give  up  even  before  the  sun 
of  life  has  crossed  the  meridian.     To  such 


71 


faltering   ones   Gerald   Massey   speaks   in 
these  stirring  lines  :  — 

Never  despair !  O,  my  Comrades  in  sorrow ! 

I  know  that  our  mourning  is  ended  not.     Yet, 
Shall  the  vanquished  today  be  the    Victors   tomor- 
row. 
Our  star  shall  shine  on  in  the  Tyrant's  Sunset. 
Hold  on !  though  they  spurn  thee,  for  whom  thou 
art  living 
A  life  only  cheered  by  the  lamp  of  its  love . 
Hold  on  !  Freedom's   hope   to   the   bounden    ones 
giving; 
Green   spots  in  the   waste  wait  the  worn  spirit- 
dove. 
Hold  on,  —  still  hold  on,  —  in  the  world's  despite, 
Nurse   the   faith  in  thy  heart,  keep  the  lamp  of 
Truth  bright, 
And,  my  life  for  thine !  it  shall  end  in  the  Right. 

What,  though  the  Martyrs  and  Prophets  have  per- 
ished ! 
The   Angel   of   Life   rolls  the    stone  from  their 
graves : 
Immortal 's  the   faith   and  the  freedom  they  cher- 
ished, 
Their  lone  Triumph-cry  stirs  the  spirits  of  slaves! 

72 


Thej'-  are  gone,  —  but  a  Glory  is  left  in  our  life, 
Like   the    day-god 's   last  kiss  on  the  darkness  of 
Even  - 
Gone  down  on  the  desolate  seas  of  their  strife, 

To  climb  as  star-beacons  up  Liberty's  heaven. 
Hold  on,  —  still  hold   on,  —  in  the  world's  despite 
Nurse  the  faith  in  thy  heart,  keep  the  lamp   of 
Truth  bright, 
And,  my  life  for  thine  !  it  shall  end  in  the  Right. 

Think  of  the  Wrongs  that  have  ground  us  for  ages, 

Think  of  the  Wrongs  we  have  still  to  endure  ! 
Think  of  our  blood,  red  on  History's  pages  ; 

Then  work  that  our  reck'ning  be  speedy  and  sure. 
Slaves  cry  to  their  Gods  !  but  be  our  God  revealed 

In  our  lives,  in  our  words,  in   our   warfare  for 
man ; 
And  bearing  —  or  borne   upon  —  Victory's  shield, 

Let  us  fight  battle-harnessed,  and  fall  in  the  van. 
Hold  on,  —  still  hold  on,  —  in  the  world's  despite, 

Nurse  the  faith  in  thy  heart,  keep  the  lamp  of 
Truth  bright, 
And,  my  life  for  thine  !  it  shall  end  in  the  Right. 

And  to  the  faint  heart  who  would  turn 
aside  because  the  multitude  fail  to  appre- 

73 


ciate  the  single-hearted  struggle  made  for 
them,  our  poet  has  this  message  :  — 

Hope  on,  hope  ever  !  though  To-day  be  dark, 

The  sweet  sunburst  may  smile  on  thee  Tomorrow  ; 
Though  thou  art  lonely,  there's  an  eye  will  mark 

Thy  loneliness,  and  guerdon  all  thy  sorrow  ? 
Though  thou  must  toil  'mong  cold  and  sordid  men, 

With  none   to   echo   back  thy  thought,  or  love 
thee, 
Cheer  up,  poor  heart !  thou  dost  not  beat  in  vain 

While  God  is  over  all,  and  heaven  above  thee, 
Hope  on,  hope  ever, 

The  iron  may  enter  in  and  pierce  the  soul, 

But  cannot  kill  the  love  within  thee  burning, 
The  tears  of  misery,  thy  bitter  dole, 

Can  never  quench  thy  true  heart's  eager  yearn- 
ing 
For  better  things  ;  nor  crush  thy  ardour's  trust, 
That  Error  from  the  mind  shall  be  uprooted, 
That   Truth   shall  flower  from  all  this  tear-dewed 
dust, 
And   Love   be  cherished  where   Hate   was   em- 
bruted ! 

Hope  on,  hope  ever. 

74 


I  know  '  tis  hard  to  bear  the  sneer  and  taunt, — 

With  the  heart's  honest  pride  at  midnight  wres- 
tle ; 
To  feel  the  killing  canker-worm  of  Want 

While  rich  rogues  in  their  mocking  luxury  nestle  ; 
For  I  have  felt  it.     Yet  from  Earth's  cold  Real 

My  soul  looks  out  on  coming  things,  and  cheerful 
The  warm  Sunrise  floods  all  the  land  Ideal, 

And  still  it  whispers  to  the  worn  and  tearful, 
Hope  on,  hope  ever. 

Hope  on,  hope  ever  !  after  darkest  night 

Comes  full  of  loving  life,  the  laughing  Morning ; 
Hope   on,   hope  ever!     Spring-tide,   flushed   with 

light, 
Aye  crowns  old  Winter  with  her  adorning. 

Hope  on,  hope  ever  !    For  the  time  shall  come, 
When  man  to  man  shall  be  a  friend  and  brother ; 

And  this  old  world  shall  be  a  happy  home, 
And  all  Earth's  family  love  one  another ! 
Hope  on,  hope  ever. 

In  this  little  poem,  entitled  "  The  Kingli- 
est  Kings,"  the  poet  makes  the  same 
stirring  appeal  to  the  conscience  of  the 
individual :  — 


75 


Ho  !  ye  who  in  noble  work 

Win  scorn,  as  flames  draw  air, 
And  in  the  way  where  Lions  lurk, 

God's  image  bravely  bear ; 
Though  trouble-tried  and  torture-torn, 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crowned  with  thorn. 

Life's  glory  like  the  bow  in  heaven, 

Still  springeth  from  the  cloud  ; 
Soul  ne'er  out-soared  the  starry  Seven 

But  Pain's  fire-chariot  rode  : 
They've  battled  best  who've  boldliest  borne  ; 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crowned  with  thorn. 

The  martyr's  fire-crown  on  the  brow 

Doth  into  glory  burn ; 
And  tears  that  from  Love's  torn  heart  flow, 

To  pearls  of  spirit  turn, 
Our  dearest  hopes  in  pangs  are  born  ; 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crowned  with  thorn. 

As  beauty  in  Death's  cerement  shrouds, 

And  Stars  bejewel  Night, 
Bright  thoughts  are  born  in  dim  heart-clouds, 

And  suffering  worketh  might. 
The  mirkest  hour  is  Mother  o'  Morn, 
The  kingliest  Kings  are  crowned  with  thorn. 

76 


Such  work  is  very  effective.  It  gives 
the  glorious  ideal  to  which  the  noblest  of 
earth's  children  aspire,  and  then  it  turns 
the  flash-light  upon  the  heinous  crimes 
which  easy-going  conventionalism  tolerates. 
The  reformer  beholds  the  wrong  in  all  its 
enormity.  He  utters  a  cry  of  horror.  The 
slow-thinking  people  are  aroused  by  the 
cry,  and  they  ask,  Can  such  things  be  ? 
They  raise  the  question,  and  an  agitation 
is  commenced  which,  sooner  or  later,  ends 
in  victory  for  justice.  The  exclamation 
and  interrogation  points  are  the  staff  and 
crook  of  progress.  I  shall  close  my  ex- 
tracts from  Mr.  Massey's  inspiring  songs  of 
labor  by  giving  two  stanzas  from  "  The 
Awakening  ": — 

Oh!  earth  has  no  sight  half  so  glorious  to  see, 
As  a  people  up-girding  its  might  to  be  free. 

To  see  men  awake  from  the  slumber  of  ages, 

Their  brows  grim  from  labor,  their  hands  hard 
and  tan, 

77 


Start  up  living  heroes,  long  dreamt-of  by  Sages ! 

And   smite   with   strong   arm  the  oppressors  of 
man: 
To  see  them  come  dauntless  forth  'mid  the  world's 
warring, 

Slaves  of  the  midnight  mine  !   Serfs  of  the  sod ! 
Show  how  the  Eternal  within  them  is  stirring, 

And  never  more  bend  to  a  crowned  clod  : 
Dear  God !  'tis  a  sight  for  Immortals  to  see, — 
A  People  up-girding  its  might  to  be  free. 

Battle  on  bravely,  O  sons  of  Humanity ! 

Dash  down  the  cup  from  your  lips,  O  ye  Toilers! 
Too  long  hath  the  world  bled  for  Tyrant's  insanity — ■ 
Too   long   our   weakness   been   strength  to   our 
spoilers  ! 
The  heart  that  through  danger  and  death  will  be 
dutiful, 
Soul   that   with    Cranmer   in   fire    would   shake 
hands, 
And  a  life  like  a  palace  home  built  for  the  beauti- 
ful, 
Freedom  of  all  her  beloved  demands  — 
And  earth  has  no  sight  half  so  glorious  to  see, 
As  People  up-girding  its  might  to  be  free  ! 


78 


Mr.  Massey  has  labored  throughout  his 
life  for  the  oppressed  in  every  condition 
of  ignorance  and  superstition.  Wherever 
man,  woman,  or  child  has  suffered  through 
injustice,  his  voice  has  leaped  forth  in 
defence  of  the  wronged,  and  against  the 
wrong-doer  he  has  waged  an  incessant 
warfare.  He  has  boldly  championed  the 
cause  of  woman,  steadfastly  demanding  for 
her  that  full-orbed  justice  which  she  must 
receive  before  the  higher  civilization  will 
be  assured.  And  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury no  philosopher  or  reformer  has 
pleaded  more  earnestly  for  the  rights  of 
children,  and  that  their  lives  be  permitted 
to  unfold  under  the  best  possible  condi- 
tions, than  this  pure-souled,  earnest  man. 

We  are  entering  a  struggle  which  will 
prove  the  most  momentous  Western  civili- 
zation has  ever  known,  because  the  con- 
flict is  along  every  line  of  advance.  Social 
and   economic  problems,  or  the  theory  of 


79 


man's  relationship  to  man  and  to  society 
as  a  whole  ;  the  problem  of  religion,  the 
realm  of  psychical  science,  the  rights  of 
woman,  the  requirements  and  possibilities 
of  childhood  —  these  are  some  of  the  ques- 
tions around  which  the  forces  of  conserva- 
tism and  progress  are  already  rallying  for 
a  sanguinary  conflict.  Upon  all  these  ques- 
tions Mr.  Massey  has  spoken,  and  spoken 
in  no  uncertain  voice.  And,  what  is  more 
important,  he  has  always  placed  himself 
squarely  on  the  side  of  progress  and  the 
dawn.  Therefore  I  believe  that  the  gener- 
ation of  the  future,  who  will  enjoy,  in  a 
measure,  the  fruits  of  the  higher  and  truer 
life  for  which  the  prophet  worked,  will 
appreciate  his  splendid  services,  and  en- 
shrine his  name  among  the  immortal  coterie 
who  placed  truth  and  the  good  of  their 
fellow-men  above  the  comforts  of  life  or 
the  applause  of  the  world. 


HI.    Gbe  flD^stic. 

•HE  prophet  and  mystic  must 
not  be  confused  with  the 
priest,  for,  speaking  broadly, 
the  two  represent  widely  divergent 
spheres  of  thought.  The  prophet  is 
the  herald  of  progress.  He  assails  out- 
grown beliefs,  entrenched  wrongs,  and  con- 
ventional injustice.  He  points  from  the 
half  truths  which  were  once  helpful  step- 
ping stones,  but  which  now  retard  man's 
onward  march,  to  the  broader  vision  which 
the  future  presents.  His  eye  rests  on  the 
luminous  peaks  which  lie  before.  He  has 
unbounded  faith  in  freedom.  He  is  often  a 
destroyer  of  the  old,  but  it  is  that  the  new 
may  rise  in  fairer  forms  and  be  of  more 
enduring  character.     If  he  tears  down  the 


log  cabin,  it  is  that  he  may  erect  the  mar- 
ble palace. 

The  priest,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the 
defender  of  conservatism.  He  distrusts 
the  new.  To  him  the  prophet  is  a  destruc- 
tionist  who  ignores  that  which  age  has 
sanctified  and  time  made  venerable.  He 
fears  that  wider  liberty  and  greater  knowl- 
edge will  prove  dangerous.  He  worships 
at  the  shrine  of  the  past.  What  is  written, 
or  what  other  ages  have  believed,  is,  in  a 
certain  way,  sacred  to  him.  The  question, 
Is  it  true  ?  breaks  powerless  as  waves 
before  the  precipice,  when  it  beats  against 
his  prejudice  and  the  veneration  with 
which  he  views  the  established  order  which 
has  been  sanctified  by  time.  The  priest  is 
the  bulwark  of  conventionalism. 

This  contrast  is  strikingly  illustrated  in 
the  history  of  Israel's  prophets.  But  no- 
where does  it  find  so  impressive  an  illustra- 
tion as  in  the  life  of  Jesus.     Here  we  see 


S2 


the  relative  attitude  of  the  two  great 
spheres  of  thought  represented  by  these 
classes.  On  the  one  side  was  Jesus,  the 
prophet  and  mystic ;  on  the  other,  the 
priesthood,  upholding  the  past  and  defend- 
ingconditions  as  they  existed.  Jesus  cried, 
"  Ye  have  heard  it  said,  '  An  eye  for  an 
eye,'  but  I  say,  Love  your  enemies." 
Jesus  disregarded  the  ceremonials,  the 
dogmas,  and  the  forms  held  sacred  by  the 
church.  He  was  a  Sabbath  breaker.  He 
mingled  with  publicans  and  sinners.  He 
healed  the  sick  in  a  way  entirely  irregular. 
His  teachings  were  regarded  as  sacrilegious 
and  essentially  dangerous  to  the  established 
order.  The  great  prophet  and  mystic 
pointed  to  the  higher  altitudes  of  spiritual 
attainment.  He  drew  inspiration  from  the 
lily  of  the  field.  The  gold  of  morning  and 
the  flaming  scarlet  of  the  evening,  the  stars 
and  blue  Galilee,  spoke  more  eloquently  to 
him  of  his  Father  than  did  the  stories  of 


S3 


bloody  strife  in  which  the  God  of  love  was 
represented  as  ordering  defenceless  women 
and  innocent  babes  to  be  mercilessly  slain. 
The  priesthood  then,  as  has  been  ever  the 
case,  worshipped  at  the  tomb  of  yesterday's 
thought  and  drew  inspiration  from  the 
ideals  of  earlier  ages,  which  time  had  made 
first  venerable  and  then  sacred  in  the  eyes 
of  man.  It  naturally  regarded  him  at  first 
with  apprehension,  later  with  alarm,  and 
finally  the  fear  of  its  members  expressed 
itself  in  a  deadly  hate  which  ended  in  his 
martydom.  It  was  repetition  of  history. 
The  reputation  and  life  of  the  prophet  are 
always  in  danger.  He  will  be  misrepre- 
sented, slandered  and  misjudged,  if  he 
escape  the  penalty  of  the  death  sentence 
At  rare  intervals  the  soul  of  the  prophet 
and  mystic  has  been  found  under  the  robes 
of  a  priest,  but  here  usually  the  priesthood 
has  been  arrayed  against  the  iconoclast. 
Savonarola  was  a  conspicious  example  of 
this  class. 

84 


In  the  sphere  of  religion  the  prophet  is 
ever  the   advance   courier   of    truth.     He 
blazes  the  way  for  the  groping  multitude. 
He    is    impelled    onward  by    the    divine 
afflatus.     He    is    always    disquieting.     He 
stimulates   reason.     He   awakes   the    soul 
life.     He  points  to  the  lily  and  says,  Con- 
sider.    He  turns  to  the  sky,  glorious  in  the 
splendor    of  dawn    or  spangled   with   the 
silver  of  night,  and  exclaims,  Behold!     He 
takes  up  the  record  of  the  past,  and,  in  a 
word,  warns   against  unlimited  scepticism 
and  blind  credulity.     Do   not,    he   urges, 
reject  as  wholly  worthless,  or   accept   as 
entirely  divine,  the    accumulated   wisdom 
and  follies  of  ancient  days,  but  search  for 
the  truth.     He  looks  into  the  faces  of  the 
thoughtful  and  says,  Come,  let  us  reason 
together.      Consider  —  behold  —  search  — 
reason!     Thus   does   the  prophet    awaken 
the  soul  of  man.     He  calls  to  the  sleeping 
ego  to  be  something  more  than  an  animal. 


85 


He  arouses  the  divine  life,  calls  into  action 
the  higher  potentialities  of  the  man's  be- 
ing, and  in  this  way  is  a  saviour  to  the 
individual  as  well  as  a  torch  bearer  to 
civilization. 

I  speak  of  the  prophet  and  mystic  as 
one ;  for  in  truth  the  distinction  is  rather 
of  degree  than  of  nature;  or,  to  be  more 
accurate,  they  are  different  manifestations 
of  the  divine  in  man.  The  prophet  is  an 
engine  in  action.  He  is  an  aggressive 
power  for  righteousness  now  and  here. 
He  mingles  with  the  suro-ino;  tide  of  g;ood 
and  evil,  a  warrior  for  justice  and  truth. 
The  mystic  ascends  the  mountains  of  spirit- 
uality and  drinks  deeply  from  the  divine 
fountains.  The  truths  of  God  steal  into  his 
soul  silently  and  with  an  all-pervading 
influence,  as  comes  the  evening  dew  or 
the  soft  light  of  day.  We  are  told 
that  Jesus,  on  occasions,  doubtless  when 
weary  with   battling   against   the    powers 

86 


of  evil  on  every  side,  and  sick  at  heart  for 
poor,  suffering  humanity,  withdrew  into 
the  mountains  to  pray  —  that  is,  to  com- 
mune with  the  Infinite. 

The  mystic  craves  the  inspiration  of  soli- 
tude when  torn  by  the  discord  of  human 
strife.  He  posesses  a  strong  intuitional 
nature.  His  interior  vision  is  pretematur- 
ally  developed.  He  hears,  sees,  and  with- 
in his  soul  knows  many  things  which  elude 
the  grasp  of  the  self-seeking,  business- 
enthralled  struggler  upon  earth's  restless 
highways.  Some  time  ago  I  visited  a 
friend  who  is  a  scientist  and  a  deep  student 
of  the  vibratory  law.  Taking  down  an 
instrument  somewhat  resembling  a  horn, 
he  handed  it  to  me.  I  put  it  to  my  ear 
and  instantly  I  heard  a  great  roaring  in 
the  room  —  a  noise  suggestive  of  a  com- 
ing storm.  I  had  merely  been  able  to 
gather  some  of  the  noises  present,  which 
without  the    instrument,  had  escaped  my 

87 


hearing.  Doubtless  the  reader  has  often 
tried  the  same  experiment  with  a  shell. 
Now,  the  interior  nature  of  the  mystic  is  so 
thoroughly  awake  that  his  vision  penetrates 
farther  than  those  in  whom  the  spiritual 
nature  is  less  sensitive,  and  in  moments  of 
exaltation  he  beholds  humanity  with  face 
set  toward  the  sky  —  humanity  moving 
slowly,  and  often  with  halting  step,  but 
ever  moving  God  ward.  He  hears  the  voice 
of  the  Infinite,  and  knows  that  the  ulti- 
mate end  of  all  is  Good.  He  speaks  the 
words  he  hears  unto  those  whose  eyes  are 
fixed  upon  the  stars. 

Sometimes  he  descends  to  the  seething, 
struggling  world  below,  where,  tiger-like, 
man  devours  his  fellow-men.  Then  the 
mystic  not  unfrequently  becomes  the 
prophet  and  reformer.  In  Jesus,  we  see 
the  perfect  blending  —  the  mystic,  prophet 
and  reformer ;  and  in  our  own  time  we 
have  frequently  seen  this  trinity  in  unity. 

88 


The  poet  Whittier  affords  a  striking  illus- 
tration in  point.  When  confronting  in- 
justice and  inhumanity  the  sweet-souled 
Quaker  poet  became  a  veritable  Isaiah. 
His  anti-slavery  verses  reveal  a  soul  lost 
to  self  and  fear,  a  brain  on  fire  with  holy 
indignation.  His  words  burn  into  the 
heart ;  they  fire  but  do  not  sear  the  con- 
science. They  reveal  to  us  a  man  whose 
love  of  justice  and  freedom  has  consumed 
all  baser  thought.  Hear  this  heart-cry  for 
the  honor  of  the  Old  Bay  State  :  — 

O  my  God !  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in 

Boston  town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the 

crest  of  Andros  down  !  — 
For  another    strong- voiced   Adams    in   the   city's 

streets  to  cry  : 
"  Up  for  God   and  Massachusetts !     Set  your  feet 

on  Mammon's  lie ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  spin  your  cottons' 

latest  pound, 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor, —  keep  the 

heart  o'  the  Bay  State  sound  !  " 

89 


So  also,  in  this  stanza  from  "  The  Crisis," 
we  are  reminded  of  the  prophet,  who 
speaks  with  an  authority  from  within,  in 
bold  contrast  to  the  diffident,  retiring  and 
mild-mannered  Quaker :  — 

The  crisis  presses  on  us;   face  to   face  with  us  it 

stands, 
With  solemn  lips  of   question,  like  the    Sphinx  in 

Egypt's  sands  ! 
This  day  we  fashion  destiny,  our  web  of  fate  we 

spin ; 
This  day  for  all    hereafter  choose   we  holiness  or 

sin ; 
Even  now  from   starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's   cloudy 

crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing 

down! 

From  the  heat  and  turmoil  of  the  great 
moral  battles  which  so  profoundly  aroused 
the  prophet  soul,  we  turn  to  the  poet  after 
he  has  withdrawn  from  the  forum  of  public 
contention  —  after    he   has    ascended   the 


90 


mountain,  if  you  will  —  and  hear  the  calm- 
voiced  mystic  utter  thoughts  which  flood 
his  soul  as  the  moonlight  floods  the  snow- 
crowned  mountain  peaks :  — 

Yet  sometimes  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal  right ; 
And  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man  ; 

That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad, 
Our  common,  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way  ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt  and  creeds  of  fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

That  song  of  love,  now  low  and  far, 
Ere  long  shall  swell  from  star  to  star! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day  which  tips 
The  golden-spired  apocalypse ! 

O  friend!  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  morning-land ; 


91 


The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merrimac  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here  — 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush 
Ton  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no  more 
For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love  and  blessing,  then  and  there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere. 

And  again  he  asserts,  with  that  all-sus- 
taining faith  which  characterizes  the  true 
mystic :  — 

There  are,  who  like  the  seer  of  old, 

Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 
And  how  life's  rugged  mountain  side 

Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  His  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

92 


Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 

Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear  ; 
Unheeded  by  His  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

In  Gerald  Massey,  as  in  Whittier,  we 
find  the  union  of  the  prophet,  reformer  and 
mystic.  I  am  aware  that  Mr.  Massey  does 
not  like  the  term  "  mystic/'  holding  that 
he  advances  nothing  which  has  not  been 
proven  to  him.  Perhaps  he  would  prefer 
the  term  u  Seer."  I  use  it  here  in  its 
larger  sense  of  seer  —  a  see-er  of  things 
wrapped  in  mystery  and  obscurity  for  the 
mass  of  men.  This  gives  the  word 
"  Mystic  "  its  truest,  noblest  sense  ;  and  in 
this  sense  I  know  of  no  word  which  so 
well  expresses  the  meaning  I  desire  to 
convey. 

We  have  seen  with  what  superb  courage 
he  has  assailed  entrenched  wrongs  and 
popular  injustice.  We  have  noted  his  lofty 
faith,  and   caught   glimpses  of  the  future 

93 


triumph  of  right  through  the  mirror  of  his 
soul.  We  now  pass  to  notice  the  poet  as  a 
mystic.  In  the  following  lines  we  have 
a  great  thought  beautifully  expressed  : 

God  hath  been  gradually  forming  man 
In  His  own  image  since  the  world  began, 
And  is  forever  working  on  the  soul, 
Like  sculptor  on  his  statue,  till  the  whole 
Expression  of  the  upward  life  be  wrought 
Into  some  semblance  of  the  Eternal  thought. 
Race  after  race  hath  caught  its  likeness  of 
The  Maker  as  the  eyes  grew  larger  with  love. 

Here  is  a  companion  thought :  — 

What  you  call  matter  is  but  as  the  sheath, 
Shaped,  even  as  bubbles  are,  by  the  spirit-breath. 
The  mountains  are  but  firmer  clouds  of  earth, 
Still  changing  to  the  breath  that  gave  them  birth. 
Spirit  aye  shapeth  matter  into  view, 
As  music  wears  the  form  it  passes  through. 
Spirit  is  lord  of  substance,  matter's  sole 
First  cause,  formative  power,  and  final  goal. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  poet,  while  dis- 

94 


carding  the  crude  ideas  and  conceptions  of 
creation  which  were  born  in  the  childhood 
of  the  human  race,  opposes  the  views  popu- 
lar among  certain  thinkers,  who  hold  that 
the  human  brain  is  merely  an  expression 
of  physical  evolution,  and  that  the  law- 
governed  universe,  with  art,  design  and 
intelligence  visible  in  its  every  phenome- 
non, is  merely  the  result  of  force,  working 
blindly  and  without  intelligence.  The 
wonderful  facts  demonstrated  through  hyp- 
notism, and  the  results  which  have  crowned 
the  painstaking  and  careful  research  of 
leading  scientists  in  the  fields  of  psychical 
phenomena,  have  by  external  evidence  and 
incontrovertible  facts  greatly  strengthened 
the  position  arrived  at  by  the  mystic 
through  the  intuitional  power  and  acute 
interior  perception. 

Mr.  Massey  believes  that  the  tree  is  to 
be  judged  by  its  fruit ;  that,  according  as 
you  have  performed  the  will  of  the  Infinite 


95 


One,  or  expressed  the  best  and  truest  in 
your  life,  you  shall  be  rewarded  —  or, 
rather,  that  every  good  deed  bears  the  doer 
upward,  every  real  sin  lowers  the  soul. 
He  teaches  the  high  and  wholesome  moral- 
ity that,  precisely  as  we  help  lift  and 
benefit  our  fellow-men,  our  souls  blossom 
into  the  likeness  of  divinity  ;  that  it  is  by 
deeds  of  service  that  the  spirit  is  made 
royal.  His  teaching  touching  the  future 
of  the  soul  is  thus  clearly  set  forth :  — 

Both  heaven  and  hell  are  from  the  human  race, 
And  every  soul  projects  its  future  place : 
Long  shadows  of  ourselves  are  thrown  before, 
To  wait  our  coming  on  the  eternal  shore. 
These  either  cloth  us  with  eclipse  and  night, 
Or,  as  we  enter  them,  are  lost  in  light. 

There  is  a  striking  similarity  of  thought 
between  the  above  and  these  lines  of  Whit- 
tier,  although  the  imagery  is  entirely  dif- 
ferent :  — 


96 


We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  fields  of  destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Mr.  Massey,  while  holding  that  law  runs 
through  the  universe  and  that  sin  brings 
its  own  punishment,  does  not  hold  to  the 
frightful  old-time  doctrine  that  man,  en- 
vironed by  sin  and  surrounded  by  tempta- 
tion, having  only  a  few  fleeting  years 
in  which  to  obtain  wisdom,  is  nevertheless 
doomed  to  be  lost  for  eternity  if  he  falls  by 
the  wayside.  Such  a  belief  is  abhorrent  to 
so  broad,  tender  and  noble  a  nature  as  his. 
On  this  point  he  says  :  — 

I  think  heaven  will  not  shut  forevermore, 
Without  a  knocker  left  upon  the  door, 

97 


Lest  some  belated  traveller  should  come 

Heart-broken,  asking  just  to  die  at  home, 

So  that  the  Father  will  at  last  forgive, 

And  looking  on  His  face  that  soul  shall  live. 

I  think  there  will  be  watchmen  through  the  night, 

Lest  any,  far  off,  turn  them  to  the  light ; 

That  He  who  loved  us  into  life  must  be 

A  Father  infinitely  fatherly, 

And,  groping  for  Him,  these  shall  find  then*  way 

From  outer  dark,  through  twilight,  into  day. 

I  could  not  sing  the  song  of  harvest  home, 

Thinking  of  those  poor  souls  that  never  come  ; 

I  could  not  joy  for  harvest  gathered  in, 

If  any  souls,  like  tares  and  twitch  of  sin, 

Were  flung  out  by  the  farmer  to  the  fire, 

Whose  smoke  of  torment,  rising  higher  and  higher, 

Should  fill  the  universe  forevermore. 

Our  science  grasps  with  its  transforming  hand, 
Makes  real  half  the  tales  of  wonderland. 
We  turn  the  deathliest  fetor  to  perfume  ; 
We  give  decay  new  life  and  rosy  bloom ; 
Change  filthy  rags  to  paper,  virgin  white  , 
Make  pure  in  spirit  what  was  foul  to  sight. 
Even  dead,  recoiling  force,  to  a  fairy  gift 
Of  help  is  turned,  and  taught  to  deftly  lift. 

98 


How  can  we  think  God  hath  no  crucible 
Save  some  black  country  of  a  burning  hell  ? 
Or  the  great  ocean  of  Almighty  power, 
No  scoop  to  take  the  life  stream  from  our  shore, 
Muddy  and  dark,  and  make  it  pure  once  more  ? 

Dear  God,  it  seems  to  me  that  love  must  be 
The  missionary  of  eternity  ! 
Must  still  find  work,  in  worlds  beyond  the  grave, 
So  long  as  there's  a  single  soul  to  save  ; 
Gather  the  jewels  that  flash  Godward  in 
The  dark,  down-trodden,  toad-like  head  of  sin 
That  all  divergent  lines  at  length  will  meet, 
To  make  the  clasping  round  of  love  complete  ; 
The  rift  'twixt  sense  and  spirit  will  be  healed, 
Before  creation's  work  is  crowned  and  sealed ; 
The  discords  cease,  and  all  their  strife  shall  be 
Resolved  in  one  vast,  peaceful  harmony. 

Another  truth  which  Mr.  Massey  fre- 
quently expresses  is  the  presence  of  the 
Infinite  One  here  and  now,  in  opposition  to 
the  narrow  view  that  God  spake  to  His 
children  only  in  ancient  times.  Like 
Whittier,   he    ever  teaches    that   God  is 


99 


with  us  now  and  here,  and  that  none  of 
the  glory  of  other  days  is  absent  from  our 
own.  In  one  notable  poem  he  thus 
sings :  — 

There  is  no  gleam  of  glory  gone, 

For  those  who  read  in  nature's  book  ; 
No  lack  of  triumph  in  their  look 

Who  stand  in  her  eternal  dawn. 

And  again,  with  the  calm  assurance  of 
the  mystic,  he  says  :  — 

Not  only  in  old  days  He  bowed 

The  heavens  and  came  down ; 
We,  too,  were  shadowed  by  the  cloud, 

We  saw  the  glory  shown ! 
The  nations  that  seemed  dead  have  felt 

His  coming  through  them  thrill : 
Beneath  His  tread  the  mountains  melt : 

Our  God  is  living  still ! 

He  who  in  secret  hears  the  sigh, 

Interprets  every  tear, 
Hath  lightened  on  us  from  on  high, 

Made  known  His  presence  near ! 


100 


The  Word  takes  flesh,  the  Spirit  form, 

His  purpose  to  fulfil ; 
He  comes  in  person  of  the  storm  — 

Our  God  who  governs  still ! 

We  saw  —  all  of  us  saw  —  how  He 

Drew  sword  and  struck  the  blow, 
And  up  and  free  through  their  Red  Sea 

He  bade  the  captives  go  : 
Yea,  we  have  seen  Him,  clearly  seen 

Him  work  the  miracle  : 
We  know,  whate'er  may  intervene, 

Our  God  is  with  us  still ! 

The  veil  of  time  a  moment  falls 

From  off  the  Eternal's  face  : 
Recede  the  old  horizon  walls 

To  give  fresh  breathing  space  : 
And  all  who  lift  their  eyes  may  learn 

It  is  our  Father's  will, 
This  world  to  Him  shall  freely  turn, 

A  world  of  freedom  still ! 

The  traveller  in   the    valley   sees  little 
of  what  is  around  him.     He  journeys  for  a 


101 


day  up  the  mountain  slope,  and  his  vision 
is  marvellously  broadened.  Another  day's 
journey  toward" the  peak  reveals  a  still 
more  glorious  panorama,  and  when  he 
reaches  the  highest  crest  an  almost  infinite 
expanse  stretches  on  every  side.  So  the 
barbarian  caught  a  contracted  and  very 
partial  view  of  God's  love  and  beauty  — 
his  own  limitation  of  vision  and  the  animal 
passions  which  overmastered  him  dulled 
spiritual  perception.  But  as  the  race  rose 
through  countless  ages,  the  conception  of 
the  Infinite  became  expanded,  and  as  the 
spirit  grew  more  and  more  sublimated,  the 
real  character  of  the  Deity,  uncolored  by 
human  prejudice  and  passion,  became  ap- 
parent to  the  most  royal  natures.  A  hint 
of  this  thought  is  given  in  the  last  stanza 
of  the  above  lines. 

Few  poets  have  ever  thrown  into  simple 
words  a  more  beautiful  conception  of  man's 
relation  to  God,  or  God's  broad  love  and 

102 


sympathy  for  his  children,  who  through 
past  ages  have  been  struggling  upward 
toward  the  light,  than  is  found  in  these 
lines  of  Mr.  Massey's  :  — 

This  human  life  is  no  mere  looking-glass, 

In  which  God  sees  His  shadows  as  you  pass. 

He  did  not  start  the  pendulum  of  time, 

To  go  by  law  with  one  great  swing  sublime, 

Resting  himself  in  lonely  joy  apart : 

But  to  each  pulse  of  life  his  beating  heart. 

And,  as  a  parent  sensitive,  is  stirred 

By  falling  sparrow,  or  heart-winged  word. 

As  the  babe's  life  within  the  mother's  dim 
And  deaf,  you  dwell  in  God,  a  dream  of  Him. 
Ye  stir,  and  put  forth  feelers  which  are  clasped 
By  airy  hands,  and  higher  lif  e  is  grasped 
As  yet  but  darkly.    Life  is  in  the  root, 
And  looking  heavenward,  from  the  ladder-foot, 
Wingless  as  worms,  with  earthiness  fast  bound, 
Up  which  ye  mount  but  slowly,  round  on  round, 
Long  climbing  brings  ye  to  the  Father's  knee  ; 
Ye  open  gladsome  eyes  at  last  to  see 
That  face  of  love  ye  felt  so  inwardly. 


103 


In  this  vast  universe  of  worlds  no  waif, 
No  spirit,  looks  to  Him  but  floateth  safe  ; 
No  prayer  so  lowly  but  is  heard  on  high ; 
And  if  a  soul  should  sigh,  and  lift  an  eye, 
That  soul  is  kept  from  sinking  with  a  sigh. 

All  life,  down  to  the  worm  beneath  the  sod, 
Hath  spiritual  relationship  to  God  — 
The  Life  of  Life,  the  love  of  all,  in  all ; 
Lord  of  the  large  and  infinitely  small. 

In  these  verses  our  poet  gives  expression 
to  the  new  religion  which  is  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  most  exalted  minds  of  our  day. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  G-od  is  so 
much  more  than  the  finest  expression  of 
the  divine  in  man  that  we  cannot  compre- 
hend Him  ;  but  we  cannot  use  this  reason- 
able assumption  to  bolster  up  the  unreason- 
able and  impossible  one  that  God's  attributes 
are  not  in  alignment  with  the  most  perfect 
ideal  which  haunts  the  noblest  brains  of 
the  best  civilization.  There  are  certain 
eternal  verities,  the  highest  and  most  splen- 
ica 


did  of  which  is  love.  These  verities  are  im- 
mutable and  unchanging ;  they  form  a  con- 
stellation upon  which  the  eyes  of  the  noblest 
and  most  truly  divine  in  all  ages  have 
rested.  And  as  humanity  in  her  slow 
ascent  rises  to  higher  altitudes  of  civiliza- 
tion, a  greater  number  come  to  appreciate 
the  supreme  truth  that  it  is  only  that 
which  is  divine  in  essence  which  can  yield 
enduring  happiness  and  spiritual  peace. 
The  Golden  Rule  is  not  peculiar  to  any  one 
religion.  It  has  been  taught  in  spirit  by 
philosophers,  poets  and  sages  throughout 
the  ages.  There  are  certain  fundamental 
principles  in  ethics  which,  by  common  con- 
sent, the  highest  and  purest  souls  of  all 
lands  and  periods  have  regarded  as  divine  ; 
and  in  proportion  as  man  has  given  ex- 
pression to  the  godlike  attributes  in  his  life 
he  has  approached  earth's  highest  dream 
of  divinity.  The  lofty  ideal  which  this 
dream  embodies  runs  like  a  thread  of  gold 

105 


through  every  civilization.  It  was  taught 
by  Zoroaster  and  Confucius,  by  Gautama 
and  Pythagoras,  by  the  prophets  of  Israel, 
and  the  Stoics  of  Greece  and  Rome  ;  it 
found  glorious  expression  in  the  life  and 
teaching  of  Jesus.  God,  compared  with 
earth's  noblest  man,  may  be  as  the  ocean  to 
the  rivulet,  as  the  Himalayas  to  the  ant 
mound ;  but  His  nature,  if  He  is  the  in- 
carnation of  what  humanity  holds  as  high- 
est, sweetest  and  truest,  must  be  all  that 
the  most  divine  expression  of  manhood  is, 
and  inconceivably  more  than  this,  in  the 
expression  of  the  divine  attributes.  He 
must  be  the  infinite  reservoir  of  all  those 
virtues  which  make  manhood  divine ;  and 
being  this,  He  could  not  do  things  which 
would  be  abhorrent  to  the  noblest  man. 
If  at  any  point  throughout  the  cycle  of 
eternity,  He  should  draw  the  dead  line 
across  which  even  the  weakest  of  the  chil- 
dren He  has  called  into  an  eternal  existence 


106 


might  not  fly  from  darkness  and  pain  into 
the  light,  purity  and  love  of  a  better  life, 
He  would  be  guilty  of  a  crime  so  abhorrent 
to  an  exalted  and  humane  earthly  parent 
that  the  parent  himself  would  rather  die 
than  condemn  his  offspring  to  such  a  fate. 
The  supreme  truth,  that  God  must  be 
better  than  the  best  man  instead  of  worse 
than  the  most  cruel  savage,  is  the  keynote 
of  the  new  evangel  which  our  nineteenth- 
century  prophets  and  mystics  have  given 
the  children  of  men.  That  is  the  thought 
which  Whittier,  who,  in  the  truest  sense, 
was  a  mystic,  so  forcibly  put  in  the  follow- 
ing lines  :  — 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

*  TT  TT  TV  TT 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 

I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 
I  hear,  with  groan  and  Iravail-cries, 

The  world  confess  its  sin. 


107 


Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 
To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings  : 

I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

#  *  #  #  # 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air  ; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

This  same  thought  is  further  impressively 
taught  in  the  exquiste  little  allegorical 
poem,  "  The  Two  Angels,"  in  which  Whit- 
tier  gives  voice  to  the  conception  of  God 
which  is  the  burden  of  the  song  of  the 
great  poets  of  our  time  :  — 

God  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell  with  Him 

above ; 
The  tenderest   one  was  Pity,  the  dearest  one  was 

Love. 
"Arise,"  He  said,  "  my  angels  !     A  wail  of  woe  and 

sin 
Steals  through  the  gates  of  heaven,  and  saddens  all 

within. 


108 


*'  My  harps  take  up  the  mournful  strain  that  from  a 

lost  world  swells, 
The  smoke  of  torment  clouds  the  light,  and  blights 

the  asphopels. 

"Fly  downward  to   that  under   world,  and  on  its 

soul*  of  pain 
Let  Love  drop  smiles  like  sunshine,  and  Pity  tears 

like  rain  ! " 

Two  faces  bowed  before  the  throne,  veiled  in  their 

golden  hair ; 
Four  white  wings  lessened  swiftly  down  the  dark 

abyss  of  air. 

The  way  was  strange,  the  flight  was  long ;  at  last 
the  angels  came 

Where  swung  the  lost  and  nether  world,  red-wrap- 
ped in  rayless  flame. 

There  Pity,  shuddering,  wept ;  but  Love,  with  faith 

too  strong  for  fear, 
Took  heart  from  God's  almightiness,  and  smiled  a 

smile  of  cheer. 

And   lo!  that   tear   of    Pity    quenched   the    flame 

whereon  it  fell, 
And,  with  the  sunshine  of  that  smile,  hope  entered 

into  hell ! 

109 


Two  unveiled  faces  full  of  joy  looked  upward  to  the 

throne, 
Four  white  wings  folded  at  the  feet  of  Him  who 

sat  thereon  ! 

And  deeper  than  the  sounds  of  seas,  more  soft  than 

falling  flake, 
Amidst   the    hush   of   wing   and   song    the   Voice 

Eternal  spake : 

"  Welcome,  my  angels !   ye  have  brought  a   holier 

joy  to  heaven ; 
Henceforth  its  sweetest  song  shall  be  the  song  of  sin 

forgiven  ?  " 

In  one  of  his  last  poems,  Tennyson,  while 
the  light  of  the  other  world  was  silvering 
his  brow,  thus  expressed  this  same  con- 
ception :  — 

Doubt  no  longer  that  the  Highest  is  the  wisest  and 

the  best, 
Let  not  all  that  saddens  nature  blight  thy  hope  or 

break  thy  rest, 

#  #  *  #  # 


110 


Neither  mourn  if  human  creeds  be  lower  than  the 

heart's  desire ! 
Through  the  gates  that  bar  the  distance  comes  a 

gleam  of  what  is  higher. 

Wait  till  death  has  flung  them  open,  when  the  man 

will  make  the  Maker 
Dark  no  more  with  human  hatreds  in  the  glare  of 

deathless  £ra.  ! 

The  idea  of  the  Eternal  Goodness,  in 
varying  phraseology,  has  been  presented 
by  almost  all  the  great  poets  and  prophets 
of  onr  own  time.  Gerald  Massey,  in  one 
of  his  terse  sentences,  says :  "  Any  God 
who  demands  the  worship  of  fear  is  un- 
worthy the  service  of  love."  The  new 
religion  goes  ont  in  love  to  all  life.  It 
binds  up  the  bruises  of  him  who  has  fallen 
by  the  wayside.  It  extends  the  hand  to 
the  sinking.  It  calls  aloud  for  justice  for 
the  weak  and  oppressed.  It  denounces 
tyranny,  injustice  and  whatsoever  lowers 
manhood  or  degrades  womanhood.     It  de- 


111 


mands  that  the  rights  of  the  child  and 
those  of  the  mother  be  sacredly  and  inviol- 
ably kept.  It  whispers  hope  and  love  to 
the  despairing.  It  gives  voice  to  the  words 
which  come  from  above  in  the  most  exalted 
songs  of  our  time.  It  teaches  the  kinship 
of  man  to  God  in  such  a  way  that  the  old- 
time  nightmare  disappears.  And  as  the 
child,  with  open  arms  and  joyous  cry, 
rushes  to  meet  the  loved  parent,  so  do 
earth's  children  go  to  the  Father  above  for 
that  sustaining  power  and  holy  peace 
which  through  all  past  time  sages  have 
drawn  from  the  Infinite.  This  thought  is 
beautifully  set  forth  by  Mr.  Massey  in  the 
following  lines  :  — 

There  is  no  pathway  Man  hath  ever  trod, 
By  faith  or  seeking  sight,  but  ends  in  God. 
Yet  'tis  in  vain  ye  look  Without  to  find 
The  inner  secrets  of  the  Eternal  mind, 
Or  meet  the  King  on  His  external  throne. 
But  when  ye  kneel  at  heart,  and  feel  so  lone, 

112 


Perchance  behind  the  veil  you  get  the  grip 

And  spirit-sign  of  secret  fellowship  ; 

Silently  as  the  gathering  of  a  tear 

The  human  want  will  bring  the  Helper  near: 

The  very  weakness  that  is  utterest  need 

Of  God,  will  draw  Him  down  with  strength  indeed. 

In  the  province  of  religious  thought,  Mr. 
Massey  has  been  a  herald  of  the  new  day. 
His   utterances   are    deeply   spiritual,   yet 
charmingly    rational.      While   recognizing 
the  interior  self  as  the  true  ego,  and  fully 
appreciating  the  spiritual  forces  underlying 
creation,  he  abhors  superstition,  and  is  filled 
with  a  holy  passion  for  a  more  complete 
knowledge  of  life.     He  cannot  understand 
why    men   should    place    prejudice  above 
truth,  and  believes  it  to  be  the  sacred  duty 
of  every  man,  woman  and  child,  to  use  the 
divine  torch  of  reason  to  guide  his  steps. 
He  is  a  thorough  believer  in  evolution,  and 
hails  modern  science  as  the  handmaid   of 
progress.     In   a   word,  Gerald  Massey  is 
a  child  of  the  dawn. 

113 

J 


Civilization's  Inferno;  or,  studies 

in  the  Social  Cellar.    By  B.  O.  Flower. 


A  bold,  unconventional  work,  which  in  a  merciless  manner 
lays  bare  the  criminal  extravagance,  the  disgusting  fhmkyism, 
and  the  immorality  found  in  what  the  author  terms  the  "Froth 
of  Society." 

It  fearlessly  contrasts  the  criminal  extravagance  and  moral 
effeminacy  of  the  slothful  rich  with  the  terrible  social,  moral 
and  physical  condition  of  the  ignorant,  starving,  and  degraded 
poor. 

It  carries  the  reader  into  the  social  cellar  where  uninvited 
poverty  abounds,  and  from  there  into  the  sub-cellar,  or  the 
world  of  the  criminal  poor. 

It  is  rich  in  suggestive  hints,  and  should  be  in  the  hands  of 
every  thoughtful  man  and  woman  in  America. 

Absorbingly  interesting  and  at  times  thrilling,  no  one  can 
read  its  pages  without  being  made  better  for  the  perusal. 

Table  of  Contents. — I.  Introductory  Chapter.  II.  So- 
ciety's Exiles.  III.  Two  Hours  in  the  Social  Cellar. 
IV.  The  Democracy  of  Darkness.  V.  Why  the  Isra- 
elites Multiply.  VI.  The  Froth  and  the  Dregs.  VII. 
A  Pilgrimage  and  a  Vision.  VIII.  What  of  the 
Morrow  ? 

Handsomely  B«und  in  Cloth ;   Price,  81.00. 


Tne  Arena  Publishing  Company,      -      Boston,  Mass. 


Press    Criticisms    of     Civilization's 
Inferno. 


It  is  a  truthful  and  graphic  delineation  of  the  condition  of  the  people  in 
the  social  undertow.  Mr.  Flower  has  a  keen  and  profound  sympathy  with 
the  difficulties  that  the  poor  are  laboring  under,  and  he  describes  what  he 
has  seen  with  bis  own  eyes  in  terms  that  chill  one's  blood.  He  does  not 
hesitate  to  call  things  by  their  right  names,  and  points  out  the  magnitude  of 
the  peril,  showing  that  no  palliative  measures  will  satisfy  people. — Daily 
Herald,  Boston. 

It  is  a  strong  appeal  to  the  Christian  civilization  of  the  times  to  arise 
and  change  the  current  of  human  misery  which  in  these  modern  times  is 
driving  with  such  resistless  force. — Chicago  Daily  Inter-Ocean. 

A  book  which  should  be  read  and  studied  by  all.  Mr.  Flower's  high 
enthusiasm,  the  artistic  impulse  which  has  guided  his  pen,  together  with  his 
intimate  knowledge  gained  by  personal  investigation  of  the  matter,  make  his 
book  most  admirable. — Boston   Times. 

It  is  not  only  the  record  made  of  discoveries  during  a  period  of  system- 
atic slumming,  but  it  is  also  a  philosophical  view  of  the  dangers  of  the  con- 
ditions which  he  discusses.  —  Chicago  Times. 

The  work  is  a  masterly  presentation  of  social  conditions  around  us. 
These  make  a  vast  problem,  and  it  is  by  such  earnest  thinkers  as  Mr. 
Flower  that  they  will  be  solved. — Chicago  Herald. 

A  thoughtful  work  by  a  thoughtful  man,  and  should  turn  the  minds  of 
many  who  are  now  ignorant  or  careless  to  the  condition  of  the  countless 
thousands  who  live  in  the  "  social  cellar."  No  one  can  read  the  book  with- 
out feeling  that  the  author's  diagnosis  of  the  case  is  true  and  gives  each  one 
his  own  personal  responsibility. — Courier  Journal,  Louisville,  Ky. 

This  work  has  created  a  decided  sensation  throughout  the  country,  and 
has  raised  considerable  controversy  between  the  author  and  other  writers 
on  the  one  hand,  and  society's  leaders  on  the  other.  It  is  a  fresh  presenta- 
tion from  personal  observation  of  the  facts  of  poverty,  destitution,  squalor, 
and  oppression  that  exists  in  every  large  city  in  the  world. — Burlington 
Hawkey e,  Burlington,  Iowa. 


ii. 


Society,  as  it  is  now  constituted,  is  nothing  less  than  a  sleeping  volcano. 
Who  dares  to  say  how  soon  the  upheaval  will  come,  or  whether  it  can  be 
evaded  by  the  adoption  of  prompt  measures  of  relief  ?  Certainly  the  con- 
dition of  the  lower  social  strata  calls  for  immediate  action  on  the  part  of 
those  whose  safety  is  at  stake.  Mr.  Flower  has  accomplished  a  great  work, 
in  setting  forth  the  exact  truth  of  the  matter,  without  any  effort  at  palliation. 
It  will  be  well  indeed  for  the  prosperoas  classes  of  the  community  if  they  are 
warned  in  time. — Boston  Beacon. 

What  general  Booth  has  done  for  London  and  Mr.  Jacobs  Riis  for  New 
York,  Mr.  Flower  has  done  for  cultured  Boston.  He  is  a  professional  man 
of  letters,  and  tells  his  story  with  the  skill  and  knack  of  his  craft. — Daily 
Constitution,  Atlanta,  Ga. 

A  powerfully  written  book,  presenting  facts  which  ought  to  move  the 
most  sluggish  soul  to  resolve  and  action.  Its  whole  lesson,  sad  as  it  is,  is  one 
that  needs  to  be  learned ;  and  we  will  not  detract  from  its  completeness  by 
presenting  it  in  fragments ;  but  we  desire  to  call  special  attention  to  the 
author's  exposition  of  the  facts,  concerning  which  there  has  been  so  much 
scepticism,  that  the  rich  are  growing  richer  and  the  poor  poorer.  If  there 
is  any  lingering  belief  or  hope  in  the  mind  of  anybody  that  his  statement  is  a 
mere  partisan  bugaboo,  as  it  has  sometimes  been  styled,  Mr.  Flower's 
book  will  settle  the  matter. — Daily  Free  Press,  Detroit,  Mich. 

He  literally  uncaps  the  pit,  the  hell  on  earth;  and  if  there  are  "the 
pleasures  of  sin  for  a  season,"  ii  will  be  seen  that  the  season  is  not  a  long 
one.  The  author  depicts  the  scenes  he  has  witnessed,  and  has  the  moral 
purpose — the  passion  for  a  better  estate — which,  enlivening  his  pages,  makes 
the  book  as  wholesome  as  it  is  inciting  to  practical  endeavor. — Christian 
Leader,  Boston. 

In  this  book  the  great  social  problem  of  the  day  is  laid  before  the  reader 
in  all  its  importance,  its  increasing  dangers  are  pointed  out,  and  practical 
remedies  suggested  in  a  way  that  is  as  interesting  as  thoughtful.  We  are 
glad  to  see  the  fashionable  extravagances  and  vices  of  the  class  that  assumes 
for  itself  the  title  of  "  society  "  treated  with  the  condemnation  they  deserve. 
It  is  a  work  that  has  long  been  needed,  and  we  are  sure  it  will  go  far  toward 
the  end  it  looks  forward  to  so  hopefully. — Nassua  Literary  Magazine, 
published  by  senior  class  of  Princeton  University. 

A  volume  of  remarkable  interest  and  power,  and  merits  the  careful  at- 
tention of  all  students  of  social  problems. — Boston  Daily  Traveller. 


The  New  Time:  A  Plea  for  the  Union 
of  the  Moral  Forces  for  Practical  Prog- 
ress. 

This  new  work,  by  the  author  of  "  Civilization's  Inferno," 
deals  with  practical  methods  for  the  reform  of  specific  social 
evils,  which  are  capable  of  vast  diminution  and  of  ultimate 
abolition.  The  writer  does  not  bind  together  a  mere  bundle 
of  social  speculations,  that  would  seem  to  many  to  have  only 
a  remote  and  abstract  relevance  to  everyday  life.  He  deals 
with  facts  within  every  one's  knowledge. 

The  Table  of  Contents,  briefly  sketched,  gives  perhaps  the 
very  best  idea  of  its  practical  aims,  both  immediate  and  ultL 
mate :  — 

I.  Union  for  Practical  Progress. — The  widespread  desire  for  the 
union  of  all  who  wish  to  help  the  world  onward.  —  Is  it  practical  ?  —  Some 
things  which  haYe  been  accomplished. 

II.  They  Have  Fallen  into  the  Winepress. — Olive  Schreiner's 
"  Visions  of  Hell,"  and  its  application  to  present  conditions  —  The  out-of- 
work,  homeless  ones  in  our  midst  —  Moral  obliquity  in  the  young — Edu- 
cation, justice  and  freedom  the  remedies —  Some  suggestive  hints. 

III.  Jesus  or  Cesar. — The  opportunity  of  the  Church  —  The  rise  of 
the  spirit  of  Caesar —  The  spirit  and  teachings  of  Jesus — -The  hope  of  the 
republic —  How  each  one  may  hasten  a  brighter  day. 

IV.  The  New  Time. —  The  heart-hunger  of  our  time  —The  work  be- 
fore us  —  The  elevation  and  emancipation  of  humanity  through  education 
and  justice  —  Crying  evils  and  great  reforms  which  demand  the  attention  of 
thoughtful  people  —  The  duty  and  responsibility  of  the  individual  —  Some 
helpful  illustrations  —  The  starving  and  shelterless  Chriss  at  our  door  — 
Fundamental  and  palliative  remedies —  Let  the  next  step  be  evolutionary. 

V.  Then  Dawned  a  Light  in  the  East.  —  A  Suggestive  lesson 
from  the  history  of  the  civilization  of  two  thousand  years  ago  —  Society  in 
Rome  under  the  Caesars — The  hectic  flush  of  death  —  Intellectual  training 
without  moral  culture  —  An  age  of  artificiality — Civilization  in  Palestine  — 
The  rise  of  a  great,  serene  soul  in  the  midst  of  a  society  permeated  by  cant 
and  hypocrisy  —  The  three  great  redemptive  words,  Faith,  Hope  and  Love; 
their  influence  two  thousand  years  ago  —  Present  conditions  —  Our  duty  — 
The  present  no  time  for  idleness  or  pessimism  —  The  dawn  is  purpling  the 
east. 

Handsome  Cloth:  Price,  $1.00- 


Press  Criticisms  of  New  Time. 

It  is  a  fervent  plea  for  the  union  and  practical  co-operation  of  all  those 
who  are  interested  in  the  welfare  of  humanity,  and  who  believe  that  it  is 
their  duly  to  do  their  utmost  toward  alleviating  the  sufferings  of  their  less 
fortunate  fellow  mortals.  Mr.  Flower  is  a  firm  believer  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  the  spirit  of  fraternity  and  justice,  and  in  this  little  book  he  sug- 
gests how  this  spirit  may  be  fostered  throughout  the  United  States. 
There  are  many  loving  souls,  he  claims,  in  every  city,  town  and  village,  who 
would  fain  spend  most  of  their  lives  in  aiding  their  fellows,  and  he  main- 
tains that  a  wondrous  amount  of  good  would  be  the  result  if  only  these 
scattered  children  of  light  could  be  properly  organized.  Undoubtedly  he  is 
right,  and  it  would  not  surprise  us  if  this  idea  took  root.  We  may  not  all 
possess  Mr.  Flower's  enthusiasm,  but  we  must  all  admire  the  eloquence 
with  which  he  pictures  the  "  new  time  "  for  which  he  yearns,  the  time  when 
all  men  will  be  brothers  and  justice  will  rule  the  earth. — New  York  Herald. 

Mr.  Flower  takes  his  stand  on  the  side  of  human  progress.  In  the  book 
''The  New  Time,"  he  enters  a  vigorous,  earnest  and  touching  plea  for  the 
union  of  warring  sects  in  the  great  cause  of  the  amelioration  of  human 
misery,  whether  it  arises  from  poverty  or  guilt. 

Without  being  in  any  respect  a  sermon,  Mr.  Flower's  work  has  all  the 
force  and  convincing  power  of  the  pulpit.  Indeed  it  has  more,  for  the  pulpit 
is  often  enough  the  vehicle  of  the  denunciation  of  opposing  sects  —  a  fact 
which  occasionally  mars  its  usefulness  in  the  eyes  of  every  reflecting  man. 
Mr.  Flower's  book  touches  briefly  on  the  causes  of  much  of  human  suffering 
and  crime,  and  proceeds  to  show  how  a  real  and  permanent  union  of  Chris- 
tian workers  of  all  denominations  can  be  achieved  and  what  noble  results  will 
spring  from  such  a  union. 

Such  a  union  as  he  points  out  has  long  been  the  dream  of  the  humani- 
tarian, but  up  to  the  present  the  jealousy  of  sect  has  prevented  it  from  being 
realized.  For  many  years,  however,  the  Christian  world  has  been  gradually 
brought  closer  together,  and  the  work  of  consolidation  is  still  going  on.  The 
time  will  probably  never  come  when  all  religions  will  be  merged  in  each 
other,  nor  is  it  necessary  for  the  cause  of  Christian  union,  as  Mr.  Flower 
understands  it,  that  it  should.  All  he  pleads  for  is  that  the  churches  should 
join  together  in  the  common  cause  of  elevating  the  poor  and  the  wretched, 
nor  is  it  necessary  that  in  so  doing  they  should  sacrifice  any  essential  part  of 
their  doctrines. 

The  Parliament  of  Religions  gave  a  stronger  impetus  to  the  movement 
for  Christian  union  than  anything  that  has  been  done  or  anything  that  has 
been  written  for  a  couple  of  centuries  past,  and  that  noble  conference  is 
bearing  and  has  borne  noble  fruit.    Much,  nevertheless,  remains  to  be  done. 


Hundreds  of  thousands  must  be  reached  by  individual  persuasion.  Much  of 
the  literature  that  is  to  do  this  yet  remains  to  be  written,  but  if  the  writers  of 
it  shall  model  themselves  on  the  liberality,  tolerance  and  true  Christianity 
which  characterizes  Mr.  Flower's  work,  the  end  in  view  may  not  be  so  very 
far  off  after  all. — Daily  Jte?n,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

The  inspiration  of  a  new  social  order  seems  to  have  suddenly  assumed  the 
proportions  of  a  contagion.  Prophets  are  springing  up  all  over  the  land,  and 
new  books  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  The  real  import  of  God's  love 
for  the  world  seems  to  be  dawning  upon  the  mind  of  thinkers  for  the  first 
time  in  social  history,  and  reformers  are  ju?>t  beginning  to  catch  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  Christ-life.  These  books  are  by  no  means  accordant  as  yet,  but 
they  are  sufficiently  harmonious  in  design  to  impress  the  student  with  the 
fact  that  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  about  to  begin  on  earth.  Almost  all 
modern  writers  on  social  conditions  are  so  imbued  with  the  altruistic  spirit 
that  altruism  seems  to  be  the  "  Elias  "  of  the  new  era. 

So  prominent  indeed  is  this  spirit  in  the  ahnve  work  that  one  almost 
feels  that  its  author  is  the  John  the  Baptist  of  the  time  about  which  he 
prophesies,  and  that  he  should  at  once  demand  baptism  at  his  hands  —  that 
is,  a  baptism  of  his  spirit.  We  cannot  have  too  many  such  books  as  this  at 
this  time.  It  was  not  written  for  the  sake  of  the  book  nor  its  author,  but  of 
humanity.  It  is  a  plain  yet  earnest  and  vigorous  presentation  of  some  of  our 
social  conditions,  with  suggestions,  not  a  few  of  which  are  entirely  practical 
and  full  of  promise.  "It  has  little  of  the  visionary  and  speculative  in  it  and 
proposes  immediate  action  upon  practical  grounds  for  the  purpose  of  the 
earliest  possible  relief  and  solution  of  our  troubles. — Christian  Evangelist, 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 

Like  whatever  Mr.  Flower  writes,  the  book  has  to  do  with  a.  practical, 
immediate  means  of  helping  humanity  in  the  throes  of  its  upward  struggle. 
Humanity  as  a  mass  of  course  contains  the  leavening  lump  of  spirituality 
which  will  ultimately  express  itself  as  a  matter  of  course  in  the  very  reforms 
we  so  much  desire.  Equally  of  course  do  the  consciously-spiritual  workers 
assist  in  this  process — this  forms  one  of  the  pleasures  as  well  as  duties  of  the 
enlightened  state. 

And  it  is  just  such  an  influence  as  this  Union  for  Practical  Progress  that 
sets  emotions  and  movements  working  which  need  almost  but  a  touch  to 
overspread  the  sky  with  a  blaze  of  glory — the  glory  of  awakened  humanity. 
It  is  incalculable,  the  good  to  be  accomplished  by  concerted  plans,  organized 
in  individual  places  but  ail  with  one  central  purpose  and  animated  by  one 
central  desire.  The  name  of  the  organization  is  a  good  one  too,  appealing  to 
everyone,  everywhere.  Practical  progress  is  what  we  need,  and  aid  toward 
that  end  cannot  fail  of  eager  appreciation.  The  movement  by  its  nature 
appeals  to  the  higher  faculties,  arouses  and  puts  them  in  working  order  — 
and  by  this  means  anything  may  be  accomplished. 

In  such  a  cause  we  know  of  no  one  who  does  more  valiant  work  than 
Mr.  Flower.  Convinced  of  its  "righteousness,"  he  will  pursue  it  to  its 
ultimate  personaly,  and  arouse  in  hostsof  others  both  desire  and  determina- 
tion to  do  likewise.  Such  work  is  of  inestimable  value — and  i'i  this  con- 
nection everyone  should  realize  that  every  person  is  helping  his  fellow  if  he 
but  live  on  the  highest  plane  of  which  he  is  conscious,  also  striving  con- 
stantly to  get  still  higher  by  helping  to  raise  others. — Boston  Ideas.  Boston, 
Mass. 


Lessons  Learned  from  Other  Lives. 

A     BOOK    OF    SHORT     BIOGRAPHIES,    WRITTEN 
FOR    YOUNG    PEOPLE. 

Contents. — I.  The  Philosopher,  Seneca  and  Epictetus. 
II.  The  Warrior  Maid,  Joan  of  Arc.  III.  The 
Statesman,  Henry  Clay.  IV.  The  Actor,  Edwin 
Booth,  Joseph  Jefferson.  V.  The  Poet,  John  Howard 
Payne,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Alice 
Cary,  Phcebe  Cary,  J.  G.  Whittier,  VI.  The  Scientist, 
Alfred  Russel  Wallace.  VII.  The  Many-Sided 
Genius,  Victor  Hugo. 

PRESS    COMMENTS. 

A  highly  interesting  and  instructive  work. — Daily  Telegraph.,  Hart- 
ford, Conn. 

A  readable  and  helpful  book.  Mr.  Flower  is  an  earnest,  thoughtful, 
radical,  compact  writer.  Many  who  gladly  read  these  sketches  will  be  made 
nobler  and  braver  thereby. — Education,  Boston,  Mass. 

This  is  a  delightful  book  to  read.  It  is  written  with  exquisite  taste  and 
tenderness.  It  effloresces  with  a  literary  aroma.  The  author  has  nought  a 
fair  and  favored  field  in  which  to  find  mental  iumination.  His  effort  is  an 
idyl  of  life's  faire  t  forms  and  figures  He  is  a  young,  brilliant  writer.  The 
book  sparkles  with  liteary  jewels. — Christian  Leader,  Cincinnati,  O. 

An  admirable  collection  of  brief  biographical  sketches,  each  teaching  by 
some  anecdote  or  illustration  the  prominent  characteristic  of  the  lite  under 
consideration  Among  those  selected  we  note  Joan  of  Arc,  Henry  Clay, 
Joe  Jefferson,  Bryant,  Poe,  Whittier,  A.  R.  Wallace,  and  Victor  Hugo  The 
sketches  are  brightly  written  and  the  salient  points  in  each  life  well  brought 
out.  Many  of  the  best  poems  of  the  poets  named  are  given. —  'The  states, 
Nezv  Orleans,  La. 

B.  O.  Flower,  editor  of  The  Arena,  has  given  to  biographical  litera- 
ture one  of  the  most  charming  books  it  has  ever  been  our  good  fortune  to 
read.  The  book  in  question  is  entitled  "  JLessons  Learned  from  Other 
Lives."  It  is  written  in  a  delightfully  easy  style,  and  many  of  the  lives  are 
of  personal  friends  of  the  author. — Every  Saturday ,  Elgin,  111. 

The  Arena  Publishing  Company,  of  Boston,  has  recently  issued  an  at- 
tractive volume  entitled  "  Lessons  Learned  from  Other  Lives."  Mr.  B.  O. 
Flower,  the  well-known  editor  of  The  Arena,  has  given  us  under  this  name 
a  number  of  biief  historiettes  illustrative  of  different  phases  of  character. 
Mr  Flowt-r  modestly  dedicates  his  work  more  especially  to  the  young;  but 
the  admirable  style,  the  terseness,  and  keen  analysis  of  the^e  ch  racter 
sketches  will  recommend  them  to  all  classes  of  readers.  _  Biography  should 
be  especially  interesting  but  not  every  one  has  the  ability  to  render  it  so. 
Mr  Flower  has  this  happy  faculty  to  an  unnsual  exlent.  His  essays  are 
equal  to  his  editorials,  and  more  cannot  be  said. — Rocky  Mountain  Daily 
Neuus,  Denver,  Col. 


